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."
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
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?
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?
Thursday, August 18, 2011
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
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
Sunday, July 3, 2011
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?
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?
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
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
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
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