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A Selection of Seven (Still) Amateur Poems
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So one may or may not recall that a few months ago, I posted A Selection of Eleven Amateur Poems that I wrote in my high school years and my freshman year of college. The purpose of this was to compare it to the work I was required to do in my poetry class (a pre-req for the creative writing track of the English major). Since I recently discovered that I was accepted to the track (yay for me!), I decided it was time to post the results of that poetry class to compare to my other poems.---- sapling fingers curl like dead leaves and grip a fleshy branch which tickles lines of stories etched in arching looping whorls rub against each other singing songs like crickets soft and chapped twins breathe on forehead blues searching and wide darting snickering, knowing forest lullabies like wind whistling sun twirling rhythm and soft down feathers adorning crowns of modest royalty no younger than oak’s thick roots clinging to the ground no older than a tiny smile so bright as moonlight hospital gown grasped in the strongest fists watches her tinkling laugh hover ghost-like in the green she clutches twin blues and down feather crown an oak tree shelters her sapling ---- Where the Buffalo Roam It was the summer, during the War I forget which year, but it was the summer I remember, it was the summer, because of the sun There are no deer or antelope here In these hot, foreign lands Foreign to who— you— Americans— maybe And I think of my husband— Under the crumbling mud, in triangular tunnels Under jungles Under the rice paddies Hidden from the eyes of God and closer to the devil I stare at his photo and pray To anyone who listens The Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit Even a statue of Buddha I purchased Loyal to all faiths and none for the simple reason of I just wanted him home The water buffalo grazed greedily As I prepared for his homecoming And I was convinced that the humidity Would chase away the smoke And I was convinced that I was far Far away from the War I did not know that the sun would rain like tears And peel off my skin I did not understand by everything was so bright Or why the water buffalo were wailing Or why I could not find the air Or why I saw his face Before I saw— ---- Tarnished Gold He was so pleased with her beautiful, natural curls that, She never told him it was permed, bizarre… and dyed. Stonehenge of Salisbury is a mystery, but she solved it in an English breeze, Until the secret wind blew all her research far and died. She was convinced the curse of music was a myth and asked to play his song, But before she could, she pricked her finger on his guitar and died. He wanted to buy her a birthday present so he went to the mall, Saw her there with another man, drenched his heart in tar and died. She prayed and knew her child would live, so said no to the abortion, But when she miscarried as doctors predicted, she wished on a star and died. She took up smoking to lose weight, but forgot to turn off the stove, The flames enveloped her home when she lit her cigar and died. He told her that he would come home when he finished the surprise, Surprising when the plane went down on its way from Qatar and died. He opened heart and wallet to a homeless on the street, And as he walked away, he was shot from afar and died. The fortune teller told her she would live a long, sweet life, And on her way back home, she was hit by a car and died. ---- She Must Have Been Flying She sees the world through the lens of a camera, but her memories are all in extended exposure and over exposed. The corners of the eyes are curled, like the damp pages of an ancient yellowed tome, whose Maker had wept over day after day after day after— She can’t remember. She must have been flying. Her husband was a pilot who always left her behind on the ground. Because she was afraid of heights. “You’ll never get me in that contraption!” One day, he never landed. The next, she got her pilot’s license, and now she is always flying. She is always seeking Him. She flies from the old couch in her living room in front of the too-too bright LCD light from the television her children bought her. And when they visit, she tells her daughter that she’s been flying, and the sweet thing naively smiles, because she knows her mother rarely leaves the house these days and is afraid of heights. Her hair is the way cotton candy is when it’s fresh, though she is ripe as bananas ready for bread. She’s ready for bed. She sets down the pen and closes the tome. She’s out of tall tales. But she smiles at her children, chiming laughter in the wind, and friends she knows or doesn’t know, she can’t remember— She must be flying. ---- Apart She said, “If I didn’t know your name, “I’d call you home.” When he touches her hand, it is not butterflies that make her ashamed of her chipped nail polish, and she has no inclination of heaven or angels… Between the secret glances… In the negative space before they touch… In the hidden limbo between Midnight and Morning… It simply Is. But then, Sunday screams quick as lightening! Softly singing cinders (blow the fire)… …with lullabies of a cartoon masquerade “I love you” And as I do I love to lie to you A man can learn that a woman is a dungeon in which he’d be glad to drown. And a woman can learn that a man is a hero who will always let her down. “Don’t be afraid, Daddy’s coming home,” As soon as the alcohol rots my bones. His grass can’t be greener if I scorch it black And then, it won’t grow back again. This is the revenge of the ugly duckling Who never became a swan This is the revenge of the ugly duckling Who always played the pawn … But in the negatives of Polaroids, you’ll still remain the same… ---- Ballad In Blank Verse The calls from vendors hocking wares all ripple through the hazy crowd. The tourists look for curios to give their bubbly friends back home. The vendors offer tea along with cheerful company and it is not polite refusing them. The vibrant costumed dancers sway their hips and swirl and snap in time. They brightly chime their finger bells and whisper words in Arab songs. Their brothers, they call dervishes who whirl and play and laugh all night. Their sisters are the vendors’ wives who shrewdly aid their husbands’ work. The camels only spit at me and tourists passing through the sand. But they are sweet to natives, though if they want treats, they have to be. The shisha bars smell sickly sweet of dark mint tea and cherry smoke. The owner gives us discounts ‘cause he knows we love cafés and his is just the best. It’s surely true. Why else would we come back so much? ---- Serious Limerick If I could take over the nation I’d change the entire vocation I’d help the old poor, Cure diseases, and more And finally end desperation. ---- And there you have it. |
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