The Good Kind of Dorky

 

Saturday, November 18, 2006

A very rough draft

Have I ever told you that I write poetry? Wrote poetry? I have been writing poetry since I was probably 6 or 7. Remember Shell Silverstein? That was the first poetry book I ever read. And no one told me to read it. I found it in the public library one summer. I think I was actually born to write (even though it doesn't always come easy), but that is questionable now. I definitely don't write nearly enough and it is always a regret of mine. So I am trying to write more often because the happiness and sense of accomplishment I get from writing is tremendous. Not only that, but growing up my teachers had always supported me and encouraged me. I won awards for my poetry. It's what I could do well.

I am not a short story writer. I always have trouble ending a story and developing characters in a way that is not completely cliche. My attention span is not there when it comes to writing fiction, but when it comes to poetry, I could spend hours upon hours working on one line, one mere word, in a poem. My best writing has actually been the result of deadlines. I love poetry classes because I have to have something written. It is motivating to have a non-self-imposed deadline and it is inspiring to be around other writers. Until I find a class to go to locally, my goal is to focus on writing more and force myself to write and not be concerned if what I write is complete crap--this is an issue of mine...I need to just let go and tell myself that no one has to see what I write if I don't want them to. But I hesitate because what if what I write isn't good enough? Good enough for whom? Your guess is as good as mine! Anyway, I've been working on this poem. It is extremely "rough" and it doesn't have a title yet (it will soon though because I strongly believe that a poem should have a title). What do you think? Just so you know, I thrive off of constructive criticism. I am a true masochist when is comes to my writing because I know it will only make me better. Like I said, give this a read and know that it is not a finished product...

When I moved into my first house
I painted the bedroom aloe-vera
green and bright
to cover up the rich violet paint thick
from the girl who lived here before.
She begged her mother to paint
pulling on apron strings
until they came undone—
plum flesh walls
like summer fruit breaking, oozing
between new teeth.

Each stroke of my brush concealed
her foolish choices, smothering
chips of violet
until something she would have never chosen
and my own mother would have frowned upon
triumphed.

During the day sun enters
and warm color bounces about the room
with surety.
But during sleepless night’s still hours
the girl returns, her hands
pressing out from behind the paint
like sweet pastry glaze
flaking in tiny fingers.
Her sticky-faced child demands
make me uneasy so I breathe into her
words of adult reason
suffocating false notions.
I whisper over and over
I am a woman— green
bright and happy

until she surrenders
and retreats.



Thanks for reading. Please comment. Also, let me know if you are a writer or poet! THANKS!

2 Comments:

  • At 9:24 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    I really like your poem...I'm no poet or writer. I like descriptions, I can really see the colors and chipping paint.
    I also loved Shel Sliverstein growing up. We used to have his books on tape and listened to them on trips to NJ.

     
  • At 2:13 PM, Blogger VTGirl said…

    I give you so much credit for putting your words out there for the world to read -- that in itself is true courage.

    I've dabbled in poetry for a long time. Haven't been writing much -- but reading quite a bit. So keep up the good work.

    Here's a little inspiration. . .

    To Know a Poem By Heart
    by Nicholas Albery

    to know a poem
    by heart
    is to know
    in the biblical sense
    making love
    as more than an intercourse of bodies –
    to enter the mind of the poet
    is an intercourse of souls

    to know a poem
    by heart
    is to slow down
    to the heart’s time

    to recite a poem
    from the heart
    is to be the poet
    to pay homage to intensity
    to enter eternity
    to find solace for sorrows
    spurs for endeavour
    serotonin for blues
    endorphins for bliss

    learning a poem every day
    is the stations of the cross
    a throng of sub-personalities
    a throb of sympathy
    for every mood

    a poem at your side
    through the valley and the shadows
    in the day, in the night
    a polymorphic, polygamous, orgiastic
    communion of poetry

     

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