Tag Archives: poem

A Prose Poem Inspired By An NPR Segment

11 May

How can I listen when you don’t love me, when you ask me to love myself before you can, as if I could do you something you couldn’t, as if I could taste myself the way that you have, with your tongue in my mouth I plead for less, or more, or something that I can grasp onto that would let me know I wouldn’t have to go on searching for something that you refuse to give of yourself.

We’re told that this is love, this giving, and that’s how I know we’re holding onto with; withholding from one another the pieces of ourselves that we cannot bear to let, yet when I hear your voice across a line, beneath a surface, I come to you again and again, throughout time and know you are undeserving of such a response, know that one day I will look at your face and wonder what I let go of; know that we will scream across a room, a distance, a separation of what we once had together.

Know that I will see your face with closed eyes and think of all the unwritten words, and I will know that I can’t but return again and again to that thing I gave you so long ago and wonder at the innocence that we once were.

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The Journey Of Finding Your Writer’s Voice: A New Poem

8 May

Virginia Woolf said that a writer couldn’t write when they were angry, Nabokov said writers need enthusiasm and Grace Paley said truth.  I tried to write truth but it laughed at me, it said it couldn’t be written, I wrote anger and it covered rooms and hung off the backs of chairs like long strands of sticky taffy.

My mother always said, “be careful, they can pull out your teeth,” and so I tried on enthusiasm and that exhausted me; it cannot be sustained, though when I was young I could fill pages with it.

My mother was my first critic, she looked at my words and sniffed, “too much dialog,” so I put down my pen and told myself I wasn’t very good – how can there be no scene?

I didn’t know how to describe the things that I saw, to convey feeling, I could only be a vehicle for what others said and that seemed to be my story.

The I wasn’t anything but observation for that’s all it saw, but the eye knew more than I did and it knew to look inward, to keep searching beneath the glaze.

It skimmed its sight over my cracks and said, “this must be told,” but how does one paint pictures with words, how does one create bridges so that others can walk across your ruptures?

I didn’t want trodden paths or feet upon me, I didn’t want other’s eyes telling my stories, so I hide in metaphor because I didn’t want to see my own telling.

So frightened was I that I never said anything really.   I used each stroke of each letter to build an abstract that one could hang on a wall, or in a coffee shop, or in a place where it was ok to not know the meaning of things because that was the point.

To not mean anything to anyone so that you can be anything to everyone

“That’s beautiful,” you said, “that makes so much sense,” but what’s left of you when there is no I?  So you swam backward in the sea of self and tried to grasp onto the familiar, to recreate what you had seen, but nothing was the same and neither were you.

You had twisted limbs, an uncertain scent and larger divides.

This is where the You began, the you that told the stories for you; that’s sitting here now grasping for the words of telling so that others can understand how it began.

How you reclaimed the unfamiliar and found the bound book that held only dialog and crayon drawings of stick figures trying to convey what you saw then.

How the pages were crooked and the spine weak; how to see such a thing was ugly; how you thought you were more but there you were.

But that’s all really, we are just our own enthusiastic telling, made in anger, made in truth, made with others eyes upon waiting to say, “there is just too much dialog.”

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Hass En Honorarium

7 Feb

I have moved into his Hass; Hass has seduced me
I heard his name whispered in the rafters for years,
And my friend is laughing, she’s asking me,
“How many ways can you rift on words?”

I want to push her knee-deep in clichés, as
The dogs and cats rain around us, but instead
I say, “same song, different tune,” because
I don’t want to explain.

See Hass no one understands you I do,
Who else can hear Shakespeare in Whitman?
(we can his sing songs together)

Who else can frolic through pastoral leaves
that pepper the Vietnamese jungles,
causing colors so Brilliant they remind us
of the Fall.

Tell me,

Who else can fling out Greek odes
that honor the Romans?

No one can.

In my sleep, I dream of monsters standing
Next to my bed, and I think this is why
We are poets because we can see
What others don’t, the inter-connectedness
The criss/cross/crass beat of our nation

And I don’t sleep anymore, but who cares
Who cares, when history reflects back
An identity that we don’t want to own and
When I say, “Czelaw,” only you
Know that the brightness has forsaken my city

Hass, I love you.  I can’t count the ways; there are too many
And please, don’t tell me that today is
No different than a thousand yesterdays
We really are on the same page

Instead dear one, in-between the
Seam of you and me, and the pitter-pat
Of the black cat who lapped up
All the porridge, please,
please be.

Please be the beef that lets us all
Know, “how do you do it so good?”

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Untitled – Poem WIP

6 Jan

I

I lived in the dark and came into the light.   The blinding, terrifying beam struck me, and so I went back down again, into the earthen mud and coated my face with it.  It was easier to see that way, it was what I had known.  The beam-like waves of illumination moved across the places that were clean.  The little bits of skin I had missed because my fingers trembled when I had stroked my face with dirt, fear, and all that I found comfort in.  Mud-streaked and face-naked, I lifted one arm toward the radiating light and let the heat pass through my fingers, allowing it to burn away the churning inside.

II

We rise again and again, shooting upward, while the ground tugs at our feet.  We crawl, belly-down through soot because the sky sits heavy on us.  It asks too much; that constant expansion, a remainder we are small.

We drop down because we cannot deny gravity’s demand, and are reduced.  It is easier to live this way.  In the back of our minds we know that giants walk among us; that they throw fire-balls of glory and we think we cannot grow so tall.

 

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An Ode To College Drinking

28 Sep

We drank because we were happy because we were confused.  We drank because we got an A, or because it was football season.  We drank because we didn’t know what we wanted to do with our lives, but we knew what we wanted to drink.

We drank because it was Friday and that’s what you did on Fridays, we drank because it was fun.  We drank because our boyfriends didn’t love us; we drank for courage, for the hope of meeting someone.

We drank because it was snowing, it was Christmas or Thanksgiving and so we drank to celebrate.  We drank because it was time to graduate; we drank because we were going to get paid.  We drank because we were scared, and alcohol was always there to remind us of what we shared together, we drank to forget.

We drank for the memories of drinking; we drank because we’d never have this again.  We drank because we were turning one year older and now we were allowed to.  We drank to welcome one another to each other, we drank for community.  We drank because it was over, we drank to new beginnings.

We drank in the dark by the fire, we drank for Sunday brunch.  We drank because we were free to drink whenever we wanted to; we drank because we thought that’s what we were supposed to do.

We drank so that we’d have an excuse; we drank to take off our clothes.  We drank because we were going dancing; we drank because we didn’t want the night to end.  We drank because this was the only time in our lives that we could drink like this, we drank because it was the only time in our lives we were publicly permitted to.

We drank because it was cheap because we were sitting by the pool because that band was playing and we drank to enjoy them.  We drank because someone got engaged, because someone was going away, we drank because it was there.

We drank because we failed because drinking was the solution. We drank to be funny, we drank to fall down.  We drank to stand up on bars and hang from the lights strung up on the ceiling, we drank to get caught.

We drank to see if we could have one more, we drank because we had nothing to do the next day.  We drank because we had too many choices; we drank because we were overwhelmed.  We drank because we really weren’t sure of anything except drinking.

We drank because we were young because it was simple because we could do it with anyone at any time and find a reason for it.  We drank for whatever we were in that moment; we drank for what we were never going to be and what we might have.  We drank for expectation, for hope, for the whole of life that was cheering us on, saying, “yes, please, another one.”

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What Its Like to Stand in Front of Hundred People & Tell A Story

6 Jul

I cursed myself as I surveyed the room, “why didn’t I wear something else?  Why did no one tell me tonight’s look was Derelicht,” or as I put it homeless chic.

I should’ve known better because in fact I already knew.  I had encountered this crowd before on Valencia, in Dive bars, at the corners of certain streets shouting out their performance poetry; why didn’t I drop by Goodwill and pick up an Amish-made dress; that would’ve been perfect.

My friend Lynn whispered, “quick, I’ll poke some holes in your sweater, or rip your pants.”

“Lynn, this event is being filmed,” and so I found the hosts of the evening and introduced myself, one of them actually looked disappointed to meet me.

After some words of welcome they handed me a bright red ticket, “alcohol, to calm the nerves.”  I was thrilled because my nerves needed some liquid poison.

Along with the ticket came a book for me to sign; I was in a book!

I stood there and tried to think of something pithy and brilliant to write, “To Evan, Samantha Rubenstein”

I tried not to think about what I had just written; tried not to think about the filling room; tried not to think about my black dress pants and animal print sweater – all this trying forced me to the makeshift bar.

Handing over my ticket, I happily ordered a Vodka Soda.

“You can only get beer with that.”

“Not even wine,” I smiled.

“Sorry, only beer.”

“Oh ok,” I stood there, “it’s just I’m not really a beer drinker.  I like it sometimes, like on really hot day, but anyway I’m so excited for tonight, you know, I’m one of the readers,” the congrats I received sent me straight back to my leather wallet for a peeled out five.

“One vodka soda please.”

I sat there in my fold-out chair, next to one of the other readers and a woman wearing bright red pants and a shirt that had so many holes I wondered if she was being ironic.

“Have you done this before?”

“Yea, I’ve done this a few times.”

Downing my drink, I gave up on the chit-chat; it didn’t feel natural; a second Self had floated up out of me and was watching me try to be myself, “so awkward right?”

I had this sinking feeling, not like my feelings sunk, but that my Self was.  Why had I been so confident, I didn’t even practice my piece; why had I not realized that being chosen was a big deal, and as I looked around the room I noticed that people were having to sit on the floor.

Finally, the readings began; being competitive and terrified I had been secretly hoping that everyone would be terrible; then my terror wouldn’t be so bad; however, girl one was extremely funny, even performing her piece.

Then girl two arose and broke all of our hearts with her own heartbreak, it just got worse.

“Oh my god,” I thought, “why was I picked?”

I had written the piece years before and submitted it on a whim.  I wanted to run up to the host and tell them what I had recently written was so much better, let them know that going on stage would be a betrayal of my true art (an excuse I had used years before on an English Professor for a late paper).

The cruel minutes ticked by, “we were only halfway through?”

During intermission I stood with Lynn, while she pinned a purple flower in my hair, “there,” she said, “I brought this from home,” and I gave her gratuitous hug.

Lynn and I decided to pass on a second drink, “let’s wait ‘til after,” so I went back to my chair and took deep breaths to calm my pounding heart and skin-ripping impatience.

The band came on with a steel drum and a tenor singer that moved like liquid; then a girl with sticks of dynamite taped to her smoked a cigarette and said, “I’m depressed.”

Suddenly, I felt a large palm on the small of back, pushing me toward the stage.  Without taking a deep breath I glanced down and clasped my two hands together; one held the other and they agreed not to publicly shake.

My legs couldn’t do the same so I continually transferred my weight between the two; the constant movement kept them distracted.

I stood very close to the Mic, and heard my voice ring out, shaping my words to fill the audience’s ears; it felt like it would never stop; that I would always be standing there in front of a crowd, forced to hide my shaking.

Time, the illustrious deceiver took hold, and I fell into forever, not knowing how long it all last; the glory so short and fear it’s opposite, “be wary of it,” I told myself, but I was enveloped by it.

Applause shattered time, and there I was again, calm, staring out into the crowd, smiling my big foolish smile I get when I’m so happy I can’t stand it.

People came up and congratulated me, or just said hello, and I saw that the host was right; it was a good group of people.

“So my clothes weren’t so bad?” and the previously disappointed host gave me a hug goodbye, “I thought your story was beautiful.”

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The Being’s Siren Song

1 Jul

A siren song of a thing I must do, despite the fact that I wish I knew better; wish I wasn’t called like a dog to the bell after Paplov, licking his heels, begging for a different answer, begging to be shoved into a different type of straight jacket.

“A writer,” they said, and laughed and sent me down onto land that laughed too, but my laugh was bitter and salty, and I couldn’t stop.  They had to pry the pen from my hand, take the paper and tell me it was the death of trees that I once yearned to sit under in a different century where such things were aspired to.

Like a bitten apple before it smelled like poison; before it became the symbol of learning, of the Fall for I fell before I even had a chance; fell onto my knees in supplication for something other than these letters that I must daily arrange, and when I do otherwise I know I am betraying my very nature; like stained fingers dipped in unused ink to mark what I am, “a writer,” they said.

I cannot be otherwise, “oh how I try,” and I do, and I tell others I am not what I was made to be because it is such a cursed thing; such a thing without choosing; such a powerful, meaningless thing that makes structures to stand in; structures of stories one on top of the other and I wonder how skyscrapers are made of this; how we too are forced to cower beneath these constructions, and when they say otherwise, I tell them to ask God, “ask God how he teaches us, how we believe in the unseen.”

“The stories,” they say, and I know I was anointed; know that somehow my shiny unborn being was chosen to arrange life for others, through painted pictures in black and white, through burning, through the evolving tablet we began with and return to again to ask it for answers; to tell us something other than what we are told; to plant my fingers, striking each square to create circles that turn in on themselves throughout time, throughout all knowing, again and again we return and are born again through language.

This is how we construct ourselves; this is how we know; this is how we reach to another across, constantly without stopping the silence, so deafening beyond all hope and again we end up there because that’s the only place to go.

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How Far I Travel

24 May

How far I travel (to you)

My love, whose ceaseless hours

Punctured by the space I seek

to rectify through miles of white,

tasteless noise, inert, struck dumb

before the crumbled temple I kneel

 down with my mouth that screams

“enough!” I must go without for so

long, and it is such an effort

Though, in the laughing dark of

 melancholy I find you near me

 illuminating a being that I strive to be

 with you- a breath of infinite air that

 nullifies perception’s seductive mirrors

whom I cannot stop staring into.

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Last Prayer – Inspired by The Cinnamon Peeler

16 May

Let us be each other’s scars so that we can never fully heal from the power of our words – let us carry touch through scent that cannot be covered – let our sound live in the city’s mist so that when we are shrouded we are enveloped by our own pleasure – be my wound that sits fat at the edge of the table that we lay upon.

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For Mikey – because he is my forever friend

19 Apr

SouthPaw

Sometimes I throb so loud

Trapped in by my own sound-

Motionless in my own emotion

If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t know the I in my eye

The constant flickering, blinking shut for just an instant

A pause – to exhale and still I cannot breathe

By vibrating inflection, reflecting-

Back the waves of you

Who grabs my hand because without it I would turn into dust

And you say, “this is right, but I know your wrongs and-

those are right too,” It’s too bad I’m left-handed.

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