Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Wow. Apparently Some of My Writing Is Quasi-Autobiographical. Who Knew?
Her bed smelled slightly of choclate, her hair of lemon and hibiscus leaves and her hair tasted of strawberry. "I could make a Sarah tea", he said, "lemon-hibiscus-strawberry, with a hint of chocolate". She laughed. "Who would drink such a thing?" she asked. "I would", he replied, pinning her down with a kiss. Her bed was small, and they had to be careful not to fall off, or to disturb her roommate.
They had met at a "Women for Women International" fundraiser. It had taken him a month of coffee-dates to confirm she wasn't gay.* A dinner date soon followed.
*********************
* I am currently going through my papers and found this. I have indecipherable writing after in between the words "gay" and "a. Also, at the bottom of the page: "The candle flickers: A beacon of hope when I try to long to shed this yoke.
Tal Ilan. Rav Henkin, agunah stuff, rabbinic culture, heteronormativity, family."
I am guessing the last line was a list of things for me to research and write about. (Tal Ilan is an academic scholar on Judaism and women's issues, Rabbi Henkin also specializes in the topic.) Weird, how these small words can trace where I was when I wrote the scene above, the way I can see it fitting itno my life at that time. Going through papers is kind of like re-discovering yourself. Yup, I know that sounds corny -but thanks to my papers, I know I've always been corny. Yay!
They had met at a "Women for Women International" fundraiser. It had taken him a month of coffee-dates to confirm she wasn't gay.* A dinner date soon followed.
*********************
* I am currently going through my papers and found this. I have indecipherable writing after in between the words "gay" and "a. Also, at the bottom of the page: "The candle flickers: A beacon of hope when I try to long to shed this yoke.
Tal Ilan. Rav Henkin, agunah stuff, rabbinic culture, heteronormativity, family."
I am guessing the last line was a list of things for me to research and write about. (Tal Ilan is an academic scholar on Judaism and women's issues, Rabbi Henkin also specializes in the topic.) Weird, how these small words can trace where I was when I wrote the scene above, the way I can see it fitting itno my life at that time. Going through papers is kind of like re-discovering yourself. Yup, I know that sounds corny -but thanks to my papers, I know I've always been corny. Yay!
Friday, March 16, 2012
i know so many men with brown eyes - none, none of this is adressed to you, my loves
The blanket crumbles like sand -
its pink where you once held my hand.
The squares are fading flowers,
or some such metaphor.
Do you believe in metaphors?
The power of words to transform us like angels -
white wings and trumpets: Why all the fuss
for such a little thing, like death or sex, or your eyes,
browner than mud -the color of shit, really.
"Ooh, so we've started cursing now."
Fuck you.
its pink where you once held my hand.
The squares are fading flowers,
or some such metaphor.
Do you believe in metaphors?
The power of words to transform us like angels -
white wings and trumpets: Why all the fuss
for such a little thing, like death or sex, or your eyes,
browner than mud -the color of shit, really.
"Ooh, so we've started cursing now."
Fuck you.
Fear
Nothing like weighing your fears at night,
when you gleam from my shadows
that coat your body like sweat.
"You're all wet", I whisper.
You laugh when I wipe your head with a handkercheif.
"What is this, the 1800s?"
"Sh!", I say, "Sh!".
My lips are on your lips,
my sweat on your sweat -
there are no more shadows.
when you gleam from my shadows
that coat your body like sweat.
"You're all wet", I whisper.
You laugh when I wipe your head with a handkercheif.
"What is this, the 1800s?"
"Sh!", I say, "Sh!".
My lips are on your lips,
my sweat on your sweat -
there are no more shadows.
la rose
de la rose -
tes bras avec mes bras.
douloureuese - comme ca,
comme l'eau de la Siene,
qui pleure sur mes bras,
quis sont tristes san tiens.
tes bras avec mes bras.
douloureuese - comme ca,
comme l'eau de la Siene,
qui pleure sur mes bras,
quis sont tristes san tiens.
Lust, Anger
Anger courses through my veins like a cordial.
I would rather get drunk on love or sex,
though anger is a component of those -
at least, the Marquis de Sade tells me so.
I read the Marquis de Sade, drunkenly, on the floor -
your lips were crawling into my earbuds like lizards,
and your hand was picking my vines:
I was a stalk, falling off of a stone castle,
like in those Disney cartoons,
where the princesses braid their hair
and forget to be afraid.
But I have not forgotten:
I weave you through my tresses,
feel your lips in my fingers,
knee-caps bended on a bed of down,
curled over poetry books like rotten petals.
You used to love flowers - I could count our nights
in the wilted leaves on my pillow -
whiteness I write with the ink of my eyes.
What color would you paint in, if you could paint my tears?
I wonder if it would be the same color in which I paint your fears.
I would rather get drunk on love or sex,
though anger is a component of those -
at least, the Marquis de Sade tells me so.
I read the Marquis de Sade, drunkenly, on the floor -
your lips were crawling into my earbuds like lizards,
and your hand was picking my vines:
I was a stalk, falling off of a stone castle,
like in those Disney cartoons,
where the princesses braid their hair
and forget to be afraid.
But I have not forgotten:
I weave you through my tresses,
feel your lips in my fingers,
knee-caps bended on a bed of down,
curled over poetry books like rotten petals.
You used to love flowers - I could count our nights
in the wilted leaves on my pillow -
whiteness I write with the ink of my eyes.
What color would you paint in, if you could paint my tears?
I wonder if it would be the same color in which I paint your fears.
Back To The Present
I do not like the name Gottfried: It makes me think of corpses and Italian poetry. I think of this while reading my book. I also think of love, and a million other things too boring to write about - so I am left sitting here, writing about a man called Gottfried while listening to Spanish TV. I cannot think of Gottfired having a lover, though I do know he had very hairy thighs. Black hairs, to be exact. His skin was pale. His back hurt from carrying too much armor.
In another era, I might have loved him. Tonight, he bleats silently against my door. I turn up the TV: maybe it will harmonize with his bleating, vocal chords rubbing against each other like legs, or the lilly-stalks I used for metaphors in our love-poems, pieces of dusty paper we use as napkins; Yesterday, I wiped soup off my face with a sonnet. Tonight, similies will mop up my salad.
And through it all, a silent bleating I feel every time I touch my heart.
Author's note: Thank you to Dr. Walter Stephens for introducing me to Gerusalemme Liberata, which is an Italian epic-poem that does (if I remember correctly) have someone named Gottfried, and is about the Crusades.
In another era, I might have loved him. Tonight, he bleats silently against my door. I turn up the TV: maybe it will harmonize with his bleating, vocal chords rubbing against each other like legs, or the lilly-stalks I used for metaphors in our love-poems, pieces of dusty paper we use as napkins; Yesterday, I wiped soup off my face with a sonnet. Tonight, similies will mop up my salad.
And through it all, a silent bleating I feel every time I touch my heart.
Author's note: Thank you to Dr. Walter Stephens for introducing me to Gerusalemme Liberata, which is an Italian epic-poem that does (if I remember correctly) have someone named Gottfried, and is about the Crusades.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Jerusalem
6 am, on the stairs that lead to the Western Wall Plaza:
Gold and sandstone color the air with their lament -
The sacred pilgrimages have been defeated by blood's reek,
opaque crimson encrusting corpses that once were encrusted by rubies,
to honor the triumvirate of holidays.
12 pm, in the alley of the Old Square, near the orange tree:
Your eyes mock my fumbling fingers;
your course military green, the color of rotten olives,
meshes with my silver-woven scarf. (Ten shekels!)
From the street, the stench of urine elevates the scent of forgotten dreams.
12:15, in the abandoned and unlocked apartment, in the building off of the alley:
I immerse myself in you, as my grandmother once immersed in mikvah-waters,
but I find no purity: I bleed into you like a menstruating woman.
6 pm, at the Western Wall:
The not-quite-darkness paints the stones periwinkle;
their brown resembles the autumn leaves I crush with my high-heeled boots.
A quorum of men murmurs a counter-melody to the white prayer notes
that seep out of the walls cracks, like you seeped out of me, that afternoon.
"May His name be blessed forever and ever".
As my fingers fumble against the stones' cold hardness,
I think about you and cry.
Gold and sandstone color the air with their lament -
The sacred pilgrimages have been defeated by blood's reek,
opaque crimson encrusting corpses that once were encrusted by rubies,
to honor the triumvirate of holidays.
12 pm, in the alley of the Old Square, near the orange tree:
Your eyes mock my fumbling fingers;
your course military green, the color of rotten olives,
meshes with my silver-woven scarf. (Ten shekels!)
From the street, the stench of urine elevates the scent of forgotten dreams.
12:15, in the abandoned and unlocked apartment, in the building off of the alley:
I immerse myself in you, as my grandmother once immersed in mikvah-waters,
but I find no purity: I bleed into you like a menstruating woman.
6 pm, at the Western Wall:
The not-quite-darkness paints the stones periwinkle;
their brown resembles the autumn leaves I crush with my high-heeled boots.
A quorum of men murmurs a counter-melody to the white prayer notes
that seep out of the walls cracks, like you seeped out of me, that afternoon.
"May His name be blessed forever and ever".
As my fingers fumble against the stones' cold hardness,
I think about you and cry.
Process
Since this blog is also to document my "process", here are earlier versions:
that never heal, but fester quietly,
boiling over like water ina keetler,
cascading down towards the abyss.
two rewrites of the last line:
that scathes your hands when you make my tea.
that scathes your hands when it's time for tea.
that never heal, but fester quietly,
boiling over like water ina keetler,
cascading down towards the abyss.
two rewrites of the last line:
that scathes your hands when you make my tea.
that scathes your hands when it's time for tea.
Tears
Tears fall falsely, laying salty pain on self-inflicted wounds
that never heal, but boil over quietly, like water in a kettle
that scathes my tea-filled hands.
that never heal, but boil over quietly, like water in a kettle
that scathes my tea-filled hands.
Birth (Sestina)
Take your breath, the heaving breath.
Push it through the darkness.
Feel the air rushing through the lungs, the mouth slightly open.
Make yourself full
of rocks, tangled emotions, feel them all dissolve
into a canvas of silver.
Sing to the rain, rejoice in fresh purity of silver;
celebrate with every breath.
Allow yourself to dissolve
into happiness; stumble bravely through the darkness,
the cup of joy now full,
the eternal doorway open.
Float through, dance through the open.
Fall into the beauty of silver -
empty void, no longer full;
only your breath
remains in the darkness,
as the night dissolves
into day, which dissolves
into nothing, into open,
vacuum of darkness
that turns into silver
into your breath
into you, longing to be sated and full.
Cry into the darkness, feel yourself dissolve:
When you die, you will be full, but now you are nothing, open -
A blank canvas of silver that you paint with your breaths.
Push it through the darkness.
Feel the air rushing through the lungs, the mouth slightly open.
Make yourself full
of rocks, tangled emotions, feel them all dissolve
into a canvas of silver.
Sing to the rain, rejoice in fresh purity of silver;
celebrate with every breath.
Allow yourself to dissolve
into happiness; stumble bravely through the darkness,
the cup of joy now full,
the eternal doorway open.
Float through, dance through the open.
Fall into the beauty of silver -
empty void, no longer full;
only your breath
remains in the darkness,
as the night dissolves
into day, which dissolves
into nothing, into open,
vacuum of darkness
that turns into silver
into your breath
into you, longing to be sated and full.
Cry into the darkness, feel yourself dissolve:
When you die, you will be full, but now you are nothing, open -
A blank canvas of silver that you paint with your breaths.
For Lincoln, After Forst Sumpter, 1865 (Inspired by Rilke's Aus Einem April)
We dust the world, as hungry heaven lurches.
With heaving pounces, guns and greens blend, surround us.
Gold marches to the rhythm of death
will never return.
Soldier's brows are flecked with fear -
whispers unsaid in phlegm filled throats.
The world is still:
All hearts have been leased to the smell of sulfur,
fondling the odor of blood:
Who can win in such a communion?
All the gladness has floated down the river.
With heaving pounces, guns and greens blend, surround us.
Gold marches to the rhythm of death
will never return.
Soldier's brows are flecked with fear -
whispers unsaid in phlegm filled throats.
The world is still:
All hearts have been leased to the smell of sulfur,
fondling the odor of blood:
Who can win in such a communion?
All the gladness has floated down the river.
My Grandpa
(He died.)
My grandpa -
They dropped his coffin in the (dark, dark) mud -
fell, clattered with a bang!
His final protest I tell you!
I thought the coffin would open,
and he'd fall out, staring at me with his eyes,
accusing me of not visiting him that Sunday
(he died).
My grandpa.
My grandpa -
They dropped his coffin in the (dark, dark) mud -
fell, clattered with a bang!
His final protest I tell you!
I thought the coffin would open,
and he'd fall out, staring at me with his eyes,
accusing me of not visiting him that Sunday
(he died).
My grandpa.
Hi everyone. I am posting some writing I found while going through stuff from highschool/college. It's always interesting to see ways you've changed, and ways you haven't. I decided to rescue some poems from the obscurity of my file-drawer - they seemed sad, and could use some air from the lovely streets of cyber-space. The poems wil follow in the next posts.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Weaving Memories
Tonight I passed the supermarket where we used to buy groceries, you and I, and I thought of your legs weaving in and out of tomato stands, and later, weaving in and out of my thighs. Perhaps our relationship is like a basket, green strands of grass twisted together like a bunch of memories. A basket is round, and open, and able to hold the chocolates you gave me for Valentine's Day. Or maybe it is more like a nest, and I am still waiting for the eggs to hatch, like that silly bird who continues to collect twigs, not knowing that her eggs have been replaced by rocks by evil scientists. They laugh at night, as they test the shells under a microscope. I refuse to believe that our love is like a tapestry: A useless adornment to an ancient wall, fading from its woven glory, frayed at the edges, where once there were little birds and flowers. If I were a bird, I would be a hummingbird, to suck the pollen of your little flowers.
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