It is April, which means springtime and Easter and National Poetry Month! I have already written about springtime. Easter was nice, but not too exciting since we are still taking a lot of precautions. So, let’s talk about poetry, naturally.
For the past two Aprils, I have shared a few poems with you. Now, as explained then and reexplained now, these are stragglers…poems that I don’t intend to send out for publication. (Presses frown on blog publications when considering your work. Even with your own blog, it is still considered to be “published.”) If I ever do decide to send these guys out or publish them elsewhere, I will remove them from my blog. But for now, enjoy some poems.
Oh, and should you be interested, you can always support a poet and purchase a copy of A Lovely Wreckage!
Pasted as photos, because I can’t figure out how to format a poem on WordPress.
Getting real sick of every topic I come up with to write about being Coronavirus related, so here’s one that has nothing to do with that whatsoever.
It is National Poetry Month!
Poetry is my first love, writing-wise. I wrote a poem in 9th grade, found I had a knack for it, and never stopped. I had my first poem accepted for publication shortly before graduating high school. But, circumstances being what they were with my serotonin levels, I dropped off writing altogether for a bit and what I did write I didn’t dare show to anyone. Then something happened when I hit 35. I was sick of keeping all my work to myself, so I sent off a poem on a whim and it got picked up by a journal I enjoy. That was just the confidence boost I needed to hit the ground running. You can check out Potatoes for that little guy and everything I have had published since.
Now, I would like to share a couple of poems with you, in honor of Poetry Month. I usually do not do this for a singular reason: a mag will not publish your work if it’s on your blog. However, I don’t really intend to find homes for these stragglers, and if I do I will just take the photo down. Why photos, you ask? Because the formatting on my blog is flippin’ weird and it just doesn’t look right.
Anyway, have some poems.
SIDENOTE: It is also Autism Awareness month. The monthly poetry reading I attend has gone virtual, and is taking place via Facebook Live. This month’s reader is poet and artist, Kristin Maggio-who also happens to be a 13-year-old with autism who was non-verbal until she learned to communicate through her art. Which I think is pretty amazing. So, if you’re quarantined and bored on Friday night at 7pm EST, you should check it out: click here!
It’s National Poetry Month, and as such I wanted to write
about poetry. More specifically, I
wanted to write poetry. There are a couple
problems doing that on your blog, however.
For one, if it’s a piece you may want to send out some day, you shouldn’t
post it elsewhere. The second part of
the problem is that you never really know when you’re going to want to polish
something up and post it. Also, my
current crap WordPress theme does not allow for my poetry to appear as I would
like. So, what I’ve done here is chosen
a few poems that were recently penned by me and have some sort of relation to
the past week or so of my life. If I
make the decision to rework them, I will remove them, and I formatted them as
best as I could given my narrow theme selections. (Ps, all of the formatting on WordPress has
changed, and I don’t like it.)
So, here’s three poems.
Enjoy, and Happy Poetry Month.
In tight on
a point of light/ somewhere in the darkness we create/ with black drapes and paint
spills. Ghost light center stage/ a
reminder or warning/ depending on your point of view/ depending on how long you’ve
been/ scraping tar and feathers off the floor. Some people have disposable
souls/ kept in their pockets like tissues for windy days. Others have masks
they discard as the music moves them/ twirling to the edges of my perception. Quiet
and watchful as always I/ notice these exceptions/ these disregards/ this lack
of loyalty. The slap in my face was deserved; I know how much you took. My silent
observations belie my hand/ and this heart disconnects from its fingers/ pouring
blood where they used to be paint. I watch you sink, and frown. What a waste.
my skin/ tough like Teflon but soft/ in places where light shines through/ I
feel tissue-paper-thin as/ I bend in the wind. My arms like lead and my/ head
on fire I remember when/ my skin gave way to/ prickles of blood on white and/ I
felt my senses swirl away from me/ reaching for a steady hand/ when all that
catches me / is air.
I want to write madly/ fingers flying over a keyboard as I / feel my senses bleed onto word documents but this darkness paralyzes me/ leaving me broken and bruised again. I lick my wounds and stare/ at my black behemoth of a computer that/ sits in judgement over / my lack of output. She shakes her head/ this ghost in the machine/ and scolds me for giving up, for taking time…I cringe. My heart is beating but my pulse/ is weak and I feel / lost somehow in the tangle of wires/ that connects me to the world outside. I want to sit on my throne and/ pen my words with the rapid fire click-clack of keys/ or the scratching and scrawling of pen on paper/ but I can’t raise my head toward the light. I can’t grip the pencil between my tired fingers. Instead I sit in shame while she judges me again/ laughing at my weakness like so many schoolchildren/ and I am left wanting once again.