She Speaks Urdu

This poem hit me in the face as I was walking back from lunch and then it had to be written.

She Speaks Urdu

She speaks Urdu

She is French down to her core

But she speaks Urdu

To make her smile a little more

Because it takes her far away

And she speaks it because it's odd

And just a little bit absurd

And maybe energizing and maybe serene

Hoping to let go

Of all she's clenching with her hands and with her heart

Hoping to let go of  everything she has

Within her heart

Have you seen her?

Have you seen her on her toes

Dancing ballet

It's a game she has to play

Even she knows

It will break her bones and leave her feet with scars

But if she gives up

Someday she may forget how to stand up straight

And lord knows

What will happen if she cannot stand up straight

She loves fashion

And on days when she's upset

She gets dressed up

On her worst days you can bet

Her eye shadow

Will be every shade of blue

But it's never overdone

And days when she most wants to run

To the wilderness and hide away and

Play with the chipmunks all day

Or steal away to Rome

She wears high heeled boots to keep her walking home

And her paintings

Oh but you would not believe

How she paints them

Splashing lilac on her sleeve

Dripping fuchsia

On her finished hardwood floor

And the skirt she bought last week

Has a long sapphire streak

So you'd think she'd be a mess

And that's what she will confess

But her paintings look so neat

And she says they're incomplete

Just the way she thinks she is but

She is not, no, she is not!

At all

The way she thinks she is

She knows better

Somewhere far beyond this trance

She is better

Past the fashion and the dance

She is stronger

And she doesn't need to act as if she needs to act at all

Because even when she lets go of her posture and her make up and

Her boots and even Urdu

Because even when you cartwheel off the balance beam you're living on

The people will applaud you and the ground is not so far

And you can live

And you can live

Without forgetting who you are

Sarah Kay

I know, I should write my own poetry, and I'm sorry if for some crazy reason you don't like Ted talks, and once I pass finals I'll have a whole month of free time to write about New England snows and third world development and lead climbing and Arabic, but I'm busybusybusy right now so this is pretty fantastic and if you like poetry, which I assume you do, it'll be worth your time.

That's all

Spain

The smell of tobacco brings me back to you
And overripe pears and plantains
It seems that in all of the big things I do
A memory of you remains

The dining hall says they serve gazpacho soup
But I know they don't have it right
And our nicest beaches will never compare
With Paseo Marítimo any old night

Inland, there are no chiringuitos,
I never see palm trees out here
And never in all of my travels
Has Africa felt quite so near

Or what of your castles, España?
Where now can I see your fútbol?
I'd like to revisit Casares
And rewatch the sun set on a late summer stroll

So my plans are sprinkled with saffron
I long for your imported sand
With Bécquer tattooed on my esperanzas,
I send my besos to your land

Good Day for a Cry

It's such a good day for a cry

For rinsing my heart below the bawling sky

What wonderful weather for fear,

For finding companions for each lonesome tear

And this is no poetic rain

No sweet summer misting or great flash of pain

No thunder and lightening or roses and dew

But if you know sorrow, this rain is for you

It's such a great day to feel bad

To go break her heart and then watch her get mad

What perfect setting for a fight,

To watch all of his pent up anger ignite

Imagine this weather with shame,

With "I didn't start it!" and passing the blame

And if I were to walk away

I'd certainly do it some day like today.

But what awful weather for joy!

For "here, give a couple bucks to the poor boy"

It's such a good day for a cry

But I pray that soon we'll find a clearer sky

Not a poem

This shouldn't be a poem and it doesn't have a title, but I don't use the prose blog anymore and it needed to be said.

I'm not sure how to tell you
I don't mind.
I don't know how to say
"Please shut up and like yourself."

Those pants do not make you look fat
That grade does not constitute failure
That school has a 7% acceptance rate
He wasn't trying to be rude
No, I don't hate you
Yes, I know you are not fishing for compliments
You are legitimately this insecure.

It doesn't bother me that you didn't go to the gym
Neither did I.
You do not need to make me feel good about myself.
I can do that for myself
Just because I'm quiet doesn't make me insecure
Usually, it's the loud ones.

I am not judging you for
That tattoo
The boy you dated in tenth grade
Your accent
The size of your waist
How you act around your parents
Your thriftstore jeans
The way you sing
Who you slept with last night
How you treated me that one day
I am not judging you
You need to stop judging yourself

Good heavens, don't apologize to me
I don't need your apology and you don't need my forgiveness
I don't need your insecurity
Neither do you.

Please stand up straight when you approach me
Don't mope. I can't stand dogs.
I don't care if you've needed to tell me this for a long time
Stop stop stop.
I wasn't judging you until you showed me you're afraid of being judged.

I'm not sure how to tell you
I don't mind.
I don't know how to say
"Stop whining and just be loved."

Riverside

It's been so long since I wrote!
Don't worry, I'm fixing that. I'm a little busy though.
I love New England.

Riverside
I've found a spot beside the river where the sparrows sing
From my perch on a sitting rock, I can feel everything
A muddy baby brook runs down the hill, hoping to drain
And every so often the trees let go of last night's rain

A birch tree lays upon the path, still ridged with beaver teeth
And I lift up a branch to find a rabbit underneath!
Bright leaves drift down the river but it's clear they're in no rush
And one small jay discreetly steals from a blueberry bush

It's here the autumn leaves release their grip without a sound
Most people don't stay long in that mosquito breeding ground
I chance to see two squirrels pass, preparing for the snow
It'll be a couple months but surely this they know

Trees lean over the river, whispering to the other side
For these days even they aren't sure in whom they can confide
The still water and humid air create an evening mist
What more should I require from life when I can have all this?

Write No Books About Me

So I found an old Emily Dickinson book today. Maybe sometime before I leave again I'll find my Robert Frost book too and then my life will be complete. I don't like biographies of Emily Dickinson though, or of most poets. It bothers me how boring they seem to be, and I don't think they'd ever have described themselves in such terms.

Write No Books About Me
Write no books about me
Please create of me no lore
I will not have my vibrant life
Condensed into a bore

I live among the living,
But I'll die among the dead
So make no statuettes of just
My shoulders, neck, and head

Please add me to no textbooks
With a paragraph or page
I'll have no future students think
My wisdom transcends age

Keep me far from museums
Draw no portraits of my face
A pedestal would make me feel
Completely out of place

If you choose to remember me
-And, if you'd like, you may-
Remember ordinarily
The me of every day

A Tribute

I do not usually post other people's poetry here, but I simply had to show you this. It's a little long but quite impressive. And it's written by a Smith student! This is "Catastrophic Comparison."

What If I Lose My Song?

What if I lose my song?
What if someday too soon,
I search within my heart of hearts
But cannot find a tune?

What if I get confused
And every lilting note
Gets jumbled up inside my mind
And never leaves my throat?

What if I lose the words
To say just what I mean
And henceforth can only describe
What my bare eyes have seen?

Or what if I can play
But never can be heard?
Pour out my heart into a song
But never sing a word?

What if I try too hard
To edit my song down
And, doing so, I lose the purity
Of what I'd found?

What if too late I find
That I'd rather be mute
Than chase the song and learn
I'd lost all else in its pursuit?

Hurts Like Hell

I'm not sure if I like this one or not.
Please distinguish between the author and the narrator.

Hurts Like Hell
Shinsplints.
Hurt like hell.

You run and you run to be
Faster
Stronger
And they tell you
Pain is weakness leaving the body
Or
A run without pain is just a jog
So you run
Day after day after day
And when you've run much too long, you say
This hurts like hell
And some wise guy tells you that maybe
You've been running too much
That this is an overuse injury
And you need to stop running.
This you obviously ignore.
Stupid doctor.
Run. Ice. Run. Ice.
Until you spend more time icing than running
And do not dare to ask yourself
Is this working?
Because you've known the answer all along
So you just keep running
With each step you feel your heels pounding on the ground
Creating thousands of tiny
—What do you call them?—
Microfractures
Your bone slowly splintering apart
Your muscles losing their grip
As your feet keep pounding
Slamming on the unforgiving concrete

Hunger.
Hurts like hell.

You try and you try to be
Thinner
More feminine
And they tell you
Get quick summer abs!
Or
Shed weight fast with pilates!
But these do not seem to work
So you diet
Eating less and less and less
And as you watch others eat, you think
This hurts like hell
And some wise guy tells you
That you are not eating enough
That you have lost five pounds since your last visit
And you think to yourself
Only five pounds?
And as you pass tables of Seventeen and Elle Magazine on the way out
You remember why you ignored him the first time.
So you stay hungry
And yes, it's working
But it hurts like hell
And with every model on a perfume ad
Or each time you enter a locker room
Your stomach growls
And you try to work out, to run it all off
But runners eat
So you stop running and stop eating
You see images over and over and over
Pounding, pounding the idea into your head
A million microfractures in your self image
And when you sit down, exhausted after a five minute jog
You think to yourself
I'd rather have shinsplints.

Mariposa

La mariposa linda
Vuela alto y libre
Mostrando sus colores brillantes a todo el mundo
Sus púrpuras y rosas como el alba
Sus naranjas como el crepúsculo
Y el hombre tan poderoso, tan grande y fuerte
Tiene celos de la mariposita
A causa de que el hombre nunca tendrá colores así
 
Pero el hombre es un ladrón astuto y nunca carezca de nada cuando él decide obtenerlo
¿Quiere ser coloreado como la mariposa?
Pues no hay problema
Él roba la lana de cien ovejas y el jugo de mil bayas y se crea una túnica
Él exige que su mujer le teja ropa de mejor cualidad, y ella lo hace
Todos respetamos el hombre tan fuerte y poderoso

La raza humana purifica este arte de tejer por unos milenios
Requiere las ovejas y cabras de mejor cualidad
Crea tintas de todos colores, de bayas, de vegetales, de sangre de caracol
Y ¡cuánto dinero gana el hombre por su buen trabajo!
¡Cuánta fama gana por su ingenio!
 
Los siglos pasan y el hombre mira la mariposa otra vez
Él ve que por todo su trabajo, él nunca ha alcanzado la belleza de una sola mariposa
Tan pequeña, tan hermosa
Y el hombre con todo su poder y dinero se encuentra con los celos otra vez
¿Cómo puede ser?
¿Cómo puede haber trabajado por milenios solo para hacerse un fracaso?
 
El hombre se llena con ira, planeando, tramando
Tira piedras a la mariposa pero sus alas tan bonitas la ayudan a escapar
Usa una red pero las alas envidiadas la llevan a otra parte
El hombre dispara flechas y después balas, pero sus alas fuertes son más capaces que el hombre supone
Entonces el hombre llega a su último recurso:
El hombre trata de atrapar la mariposa con sus manos
 
Dejando todas sus piedras, sus redes, sus armas
El hombre la coge sin guantes
Cerrando los dedos sobre la mariposa, él tuerce sus alas por casualidad
Y la mariposa maravillosa muere
Instantemente
Tranquilamente
Silenciosamente
 
Una mujer viene a ver la mariposa muerta y enseguida entiende lo que el hombre nunca entenderá
Un hombre puede tener todas las bayas, todas las mariposas, todas las mujeres del mundo
Pero con su odio, sus celos, y todo su machismo,
El hombre nunca alcanzará la belleza de una sola mariposa inocente
Incluso una mariposa muerta

Woman

To be a woman
A working woman
A "strong" woman

To go to work anyway
Even if it means taking an ibuprofen an hour
Because missing work every single month is a sign of weakness
And your excuse is one no man can understand

To run further, lift more often, work out longer than the guys
Even if it takes you twice as long
And your sports bra is too tight
And your hair is in your face because there will never be enough clips to keep it back
And to walk away and hear them say
"That took her so long,
She must be out of shape"

NEVER to complain that something is "because you're a girl"
Even when it is
Because prejudice is no excuse for work that only mostly exceeds expectations

And never ever only to reach expectations
Because any shortcoming will be noted

To buy pants that emphasize the "right" parts
And shirts that hide the "wrong" parts
God forbid you have a body
To buy cute scarves and belts and earrings
And put your mascara on just right
But never, ever, let the guys know
That you were
Shopping
Because shopping is mindless, frivolous
Even though it takes so much effort
And they would never respect you if dressed any differently

To avoid going to a Liberal Arts College
Because liberal arts are "feminine"
And therefore frivolous
Even if your major is political science or neuroscience
Which it very well could be

To have no qualms with romance,
Only qualms with romantic guys
Who try to help you
Physically or emotionally
Because this might give them the impression that you need help
And you do not
You are stable and competent
Even if, just once in a while,
It would be really nice
To be allowed to need
And not be the weaker for it

To avoid mentioning that you are a poet, a singer, a cook
Although you dedicate your every waking moment to those
Because they are only hobbies
And they are for domestic people
And you are not domestic
But to work your butt off to be good at them anyway
So that if someone does find out
Maybe
They will still respect you
As a person, not a woman

To be a woman
To be told "you're quite a feminist"
By men and women alike
And to maintain as friendly a tone as possible while saying
"No, I am a woman"
And wonder if they will ever get it

Gingersnaps

I wrote this last June, possibly with the intent of posting it in December but sometimes I am not on top of things. Sorry...

Gingersnaps

Flour

~puff~ ~puff~

Like a bowl of snow

Perfect for making little snow angels

Or snow men

Or...

Cookies.

Dash of baking soda

It's so... White

The flour looks less like snow

Baking soda snow on sand of flour

Two dashes of cinnamon

Some ginger

Ground cloves

Soil of all different colors

Whisked together

Layers and layers of spices

Contrasting and then mixing

All shades of brown whisked up into one big

...Flour mixture

New bowl

Brown sugar

~Do not touch the sugar~

~Do not eat the sugar~

~Do not give in to temptation~

Molasses. "Slow as molasses" is truly no joke

And molasses mixed with brown sugar? Even slower

Canola oil? A glop of molasses-sugar in canola oil?

They... really... don't... mix

At all

And an egg

...This is not promising

Add to flour mixture

Glop

And mix

Glop glop glop

Mix... Glop

Mix mix mix

Arms hurt

Roll into balls

Roll in sugar

Truly sugar coated

Little crystals on balls of molasses

Oh but they look

So

Very

Delicious

Can I eat them now?

Bake

Remove

But they're all... Runny

Undercooked?

Even softer than when I put them in

Hmmm

But they harden

Snap

Ginger
And soon they are scrumptious
Ginger

Snaps!

Fallen

I need a better title but for now this is what I've got.
I'm always hesitant to write love poems in the first person because you might confuse the narrator with me, Erin, and that would be quite a disaster. I've tried writing them in third person (see Dew) but usually first makes more sense. In any case, do not think I am my own narrator, I would never say such things :P

Fallen
I said I would not fall for you
You said you'd prove me wrong
But it's easy to see that you fell for me
And I just played along

Those adorable little truffles--
You wanted to make me fat
And to make me think you cared at all,
Lord knows I didn't fall for that

And the butterflies in my stomach,
They must have come out of thin air
Because looking back upon it,
It wasn't you who put them there

And to think you thought I liked you!
You naïve, deluded boy
To think that you could bring me
Any lasting sort of joy

That night we danced together,
And I said you were good
You fell for all my flattery
The way I knew you would

I was madly in love with love
And never, boy, with you
But how I enjoyed watching
For you quite confused the two

Imagine if you'd been right
And I'd been head over heels,
I would have loved to adore you
Just so I'd know how that feels

But you were so happy in my arms,
We both know all too well
That we might have become something--
Thank goodness I never fell!

Shoebox

She opens the old cardboard box, "Converse" across the side
And searches through the memories she worked so hard to hide
His too-long hair and awkward smile and gap between his teeth,
She glances at the polaroid and then looks underneath
A picture from the ocean beach, their legs and backs all bare
A necklace on a golden chain that now she'll never wear
A bright green tank top that forever smelled of his cologne
The yearbook page where he had sworn "You'll never be alone"
That bastard, she thinks to herself, that cruel, dishonest jerk
Months later, she still can't admit that they both needed work
The first Mike's Hard she ever drank, its bottle still in tact
A list called "Why I Love You," barely any of it fact
A love letter she never sent, their picture torn apart,
A ripped out journal page that says "He fucking broke my heart"
A shoebox full of memories of him and her and them
And each time there's another boy, she'll buy new shoes again.

Rwanda

¿Quién te dejó matar?

¿Quién te enseñó odiar?

¿Quién te dio permiso destruir?

Y ¿qué permiso tiene esa persona para dártelo?

¿Quién del cielo o infierno o cualquier otra parte tiene ese tipo de poder?

Pues yo te lo digo.

Nadie.

Yo te juro que no hay ninguna persona tan inteligente, tan sabia, tan respetada que él merece el poder de matar.

Y si la raza humana crece por cien miles de años, nunca habrá una persona así.

Porque nunca habrá una persona que merece morir por el odio ciego y la ignorancia de otro humano.

Qué sencillo es, dejar vivir a una otra persona.Qué obvio, ver su corazón tan parecida a la tuya.

¿Cuántos años tenemos cuando aprendemos amar? ¿Un mes? ¿Una semana? ¿Una hora?

Pero, cuánto tiempo requiere crear un odio, y cuánto más requerimos enseñarle odiar a una persona sin conocerle, por un prejuicio sin razón

¿Y por qué?

Yo nunca entenderé.

Pero te digo, te prometo, te juro en mi vida

Que nadie lo merece

Y yo te pregunto a ti,

¿Vale la pena?

Castles in the Sand

We waited til the lowest tide and ran along the beach
Setting aside all of the goals we thought we had to reach
We swam as far as we could go and danced back on the sand
And didn't have to wait til sunset to walk hand in hand
Remember that? We built a castle with a great big moat
And I couldn't stop laughing as you showed me how to float

We drew a heart into the sand and each wrote our own name
We knew the tides would rise and yet we wrote them all the same
Some kids came to the beach so we just sat and watched them play
And you told me we'd have children as great as them someday
I tried hard not to tell myself you'd change your mind for good
Although somewhere behind my heart I'm sure I knew you would

As we pretended to count each miraculous sun beam,
I prayed to God I wouldn't wake to find it all a dream
Yet when we came back to the shore at dawn just the next day,
The names and footprints and even castles were washed away
What fools we'd been, when we'd known their inevitable fate
And yet we'd drawn, so focused on the works we thought so great

Of course I woke up soon enough to find that you had left
I wiped away a tear or two and continued, bereft
Waves have long since erased the shores and summer turned to fall
And now I wonder, was it all a nice dream after all?

¿Quién Soy Hoy?

This was a Spanish essay prompt, but then we didn't turn it in so now it is a poem.

¿Quién Soy Hoy?
Soy una niña, desordenada, confundida, decidiendo
Soy una mujer, independente, impaciente, lista para salir
Quiero correr, escapar, mudarme a otra parte y nunca regresar
Quiero quedarme aquí, cómoda, alegre como ya soy
Estoy lista para la competencia, estoy loca con ansiedad
Hago lo que quiero, cuando lo quiero, como lo quiero
Y temo que los demás me juzguen
Soy hija, hermana, estudiante, maestra, amiga
No sé quién yo seré en cinco años, un año, una semana, una hora
Apenas recuerdo quién era hace una hora, y el resto se desvanece en mi memoria
Pero ¿ahora misma?
Soy una niña-mujer
Impaciente-contenta
Inteligente-confundida
Lista-inquieta
Emocionada-aburrida
Feliz-triste
Y llena de esperanza

Writer's Block

There is a yellow sheet of paper in my lap
It is small, and two of the sides are jagged
They have been ripped.
A little green pencil is in my hand
(How did it get there?)
And I am waiting

Waiting for the ideas to come to me
Waiting for some supernatural inspiration
For that moment they call "Aha!"

I look around
They are writing
Are they all so inspired?
So clever?
So filled with original ideas?
Or just pretending to be?

I close my eyes, to speed the waiting
Listen to the radio waves of imagination
Who? How?
I'll write it down when I figure it out
But for now

The paper sits
Small, yellow
Folded funny
Unfolded funnier
Rough around the edges
Empty