"blume" poems
Inspired by Judy Blume, inside Jokes with Liz and the poetry of Alissa Grams (https://alissagrams.wordpress.com/2017/03/06/an-open-letter-to-god-from-an-eighteen-year-old-girl/)
~
God,
it's me--
jade.
I must admit,
I've never read
Judy Blume
or the Bible,
for that matter
(I could never make it
past Genesis).
I am not well-versed
when it comes to scripture--
I am fluent in tragedy
and tragedy alone;
then again,
is there really any difference
between scripture and tragedy?
I was never one
to pay attention in church,
unless the hymns
were of a minor key,
the sermons imbued
with woe and melancholia.
Coincidentally,
as I write this,
it has only just occurred to me
that Lot's Wife
was never given a name
of her own--
it was destroyed with *****
forgotten amongst the
flames and the ash.
God,
you were wrong
to punish her
the way you did.
Have you never felt the
sting of salt
against an open wound?
Have you never watched
as all the familiar intimacies
you once knew
dissolved to cinder?
(I know you have).
Do you not see that,
if home is where the heart is,
then the heart
must surely perish with it?
God,
has anyone ever broken your heart?
(I think you know heartbreak
as well as I do;
it is the very matter
of our existence).
So I guess my real question is
why?
(and, no, this time, it is not rhetorical).
Truly,
I'd like to know why
you would ever think
to hurt your people
the same way
the archangel hurt you.
You say I sin
against you,
but did you not
create me in your image?
(Like father,
like daughter,
I suppose).
god,
I do not think
I believe in you.
At least,
I do not believe in you
like I believe in other things.
I do not
believe in you
the way I believe in
the beauty of
Van Gogh's sunflowers
(his starry nights, too);
or in dog-earing the pages
of my favourite books.
I do not believe in you
the way I believe in magic;
or in the integrity of
polaroids photographs
and listening to vinyl.
I do not believe in you
the way I believed in my love
during the final moments
before his betrayal;
or in the lingering sensation
of my past lives--
Ophelia.
Mary Queen of Scots.
Frida Kahlo.
Sylvia Plath--
and now,
dare I feel it,
dare I say it--
Lot's Wife.
(With her,
I shall share a name).
I do not believe
you are my saviour
because I do not
believe in you
the way I believe
in Poetry.
god,
it's me--
Jade;
this poem is
my hallelujah,
but it does not
belong to you
(not anymore).
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 9:56 PM UTC
She left her bag back at the station
she thought she’d carry on
and the whistle sounded as a watchman found it
he looked but she was gone
“Call for a Miss. Blume, I repeat Miss. Nora Blume
your bag’s at lost & found”
12 hours after a search had gathered
her family standing by
and the whistle sounded as the troops were rounded
up to contemplate the whys
“Ahh, Sherif, you may wanna have a look at this,
could be blood from the girl we just may have missed”
She left her bag back at the station
with a letter she had drawn
and the whistle sounded as a watchman found it
he looked but she was gone
“Dear Mother I am leaving, don’t expect me to return
I’ll love you always this is not a phase but a lesson never learned”
12 hours after a search had gathered
her family standing by
and the whistle sounded as the troops were rounded
up before the case went dry
“Ah, Sherif, you may wanna share this, it’s a note from Nora Blume,
her Mother needs to know that a suicide’s assumed”
She left her bag back at the station
where they came ‘cross a syringe
just one of many in a package
tangled in her wallets fringe
“I saw no need for luggage as I’ve carried more in wait
there’s a final wrath along my path that’s leading to my fate”
12 hours after a search had gathered
a blood trail lastly explored
and the whistle sounded as the troops dumbfounded
covered up her corpse
“Don’t cry for me, ask Daddy then you’ll know the reason why,
just put us in the same plot embracing on our sides”
She left her bag back at the station
she thought she’d carry on
and the whistle sounded as the two were grounded
down six feet moving on...
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 6:41 PM UTC
Under the moon
In a unused lagoon
I swim alone
Searching for
A silver spoon
Ive heard rumors
The burial of
Old Doc. Boone
He had a fortune
Stolen from Mr. Blume
They left in his body
A Golden Harpoon
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
I thought it was going to be better
They always warn you
Judy Blume thought she could explain
So you prepare yourself that physically it won't prosper
Maybe that's not what they meant
Did they mean emotionally?
I hoped maybe I'd fall in love
But I didn't
You're still just a boy
And I'm still just a girl
And there's nothing that could have prepared me for that epiphany
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
There I walk
sunlight reflecting on the ground underneath
Spaces cold and spaces warm
An open place where freedom is felt
I continue walking
my casual stride unplanned
An atmosphere asking for nothing of us
is where we find ourselves
Catching up quickly on concrete
he offers me a flower on a Saturday afternoon
Für dich Es ist eine Blume
A delicate pink carnation I now hold in my hand
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 2:27 PM UTC
Als die abgekühlten, verschwendeten Träume des Unterbewusstseins
langsam ihre Farbe verlieren,
werden seine verwaisten Hände übertastig,
greifen blind nach dem Fleisch,
neben dem seinen,
das weltverloren aus der verweiblichten Realität atmet.
Im Niemandsland halbwacher Gedanken,
erscheint jene Schaufensterpuppe,
die ihn an einem ganz gewöhnlichen Wochentag,
mit ihrem leeren Blick fixiert.
Plastische Existenz im gedankenlosen Körper,
zum Schweigen gebracht,
damit sie ihr Selbst nicht verleugnen muss,
wenn ihr der rechte Arm auf links gedreht wird.
Im Vorbeistehn schenkt sie ihm ein unbewohntes
Lächeln.
Oder ist es doch sein eigenes,
das sich im Fenster spiegelt?
An den Venusgürtel der Blauen Stunde gekrallt,
hält er die Augen fest geschlossen
Unsichtbar für das Lichte,
nicht sehen,
nicht gesehen werden,
ein Sich-den-Sinnen-verweigern,
im unbemerkten Raum innerhalb der Zeit
Wie der Blaue Blumendichter,
so weiß auch er,
um die Notwendigkeit der Verschiebung,
wenn die ätherische Illusion berührt,
wenn das Subjekt zum Objekt geworden,
in die Nichtwirklichkeit zurückgeschoben werden muss,
damit das lyrische Heimweh aus der
Überlebensverhinderung befreit wird
Wäre sie immer noch das,
was er am meisten bewundert,
wenn er jetzt,
jetzt,
in diesem blutleeren Augenblick,
sein linkes Oberlid öffnete,
nur einen kleinen Spalt breit
?
Wäre sie nur eine der liebreizenden
Schmetterlingspflanzen,
deren sinnliche Blüten begierig mit seinem Unterleib
tanzen,
und die Töne aus seinen Lenden presst,
bis die Musik verstummt
??
Würde er in seinen Weißhaarzeiten auf einer Bank
sitzen,
unten am See,
eine verschlissene, offene Aktentasche auf dem Schoß,
den Kopf tief vergraben im ranzigen Leder
und mit zittrigen Händen
nach einer fragmentierten Erinnerungsspur suchend,
die längst in die Bedeutungslosigkeit geflohen war
???
Er wagt einen halboffenen Blick,
hinüber zur lichtblauen Sehnsucht,
dem gestern noch so gefräßigen Verlangen,
das sich nun,
in gnadenloser Sattheit,
in seiner Fleisches-Unlust ausbreitet.
Ausgelangweilt kratzen seine gierigen Finger an der fiktiven Verkleidung,
bis ihr schamhaftes Blut in seine eigene Selbsttäuschung tropft
und ihre Brüste aus den blaubepuderten Versprechungen bersten,
die er nicht ihr, sondern sich selbst gab.
Im Schein des Morgensterns
glänzt bereits der melancholische Trauertau,
als sich beider Seufzer ein letztes Mal berühren.
Hastig wickelt er prosaische Bandagen
um ihre offenen Wunden
und schiebt das Gestern in (s)eine neue Zukunft.
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 11:15 AM UTC
Cold air on the cheeks makes
for a natural blush.
This is a “healthy” look—
I read once from a banned book,
on mute,
in my parent’s bathroom
while everyone else was dreaming.
A “healthy” truth I’ve always
kept hidden under my tongue,
exposed only to moments
matured for keeping.
Licked lips, feel a sting and a dare
to think that I may never really
unlock that door.
That I might just continue
reading words, unapproved,
while other eyes stay shut.
Hiding healthy truths under my tongue
until I’m brave enough
to speak or
swallow.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 12:20 PM UTC
That blue flower gleams in mind
Its luster stark against the golden sands
Standing boldly amongst the famished land.
The flower’s allure snatches me again
With a rush of unyielding visions
My minds eye replete with bewilderment
Recalling the truth of my selfness,
That blue runs in my veins.
Sep 17, 2023
Sep 17, 2023 at 6:18 AM UTC
Welcome to my world
Of tragic memories
Where green grass gets gold
And the tulips blossoms never Blume
Welcome to my world
Full of waiting and thinking
Full of my darkest secrets
I keep in a black notebook
Hidden away
From eyes who wish to see my tragedies
Welcome to my world
Wondering and finding
thinking about humanity
Simply
Ending
Welcome to my world
Full of carbon dioxide
Species dying off
And and the oceans that rise so high
I can barely see
The cold sun
R i s e
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 2:43 AM UTC
"Our fingerprints don't fade from the ones we touch."
-Judy Blume
I'd rather leave myself behind in this world than to take my knowledge with me. Your legacy is written by what you gave, not by what you have. When you're gone no one will remember what you bought or your paycheck. They'll remember the joy and knowledge you left them. You will be remembered for who you were and how you contributed to others. Arrogance tends to lie on money and I pity those who feel the need to have it all. A chorus is not focused on how many notes there are, but how they sing them. Perspective is key in living life as it should be lived. Once we overcome the hunger for material, shall we learn to experience our lives for greatness.
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 12:22 AM UTC