"woolf" poems
Photography,
Photo journalistic,
Everyday, realistic.
Commercial, architecture, landscape, artistic,
Industrial, fashion, ethnographic, pornographic.
Big Brother, fallace, stealer of souls, vouyer.
News seller, instant gratifier, man pleaser, woman abuser.
Barthes, Sontag, Cindy Sherman,
Virginia Woolf, Warhol. Weegie, Francesca Woodman,
Leibovitz, Adams, Arbus, Tina Modotti,
Nan, Evans, Hoffer and even the Paparazzi.
Cheap ***** digital manipulator, image poser,
Center fold, coupons, Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe.
Where did they go:
Lifeless paper product, painter's picture mess,
C-type, digital archival,
Sepia, black and white, hard drive retrival.
Image addict,
Image taker,
Image maker,
image seller,
image buyer.
Newspaper, magazine, graphics and ads,
TV, dreams, even the trash.
Billboards, subways, phones and buses:
Utopia:
Surreal, crop, stretched and air brushes.
Modern ideal.
Surface manipulator.
Brain conditioner.
Consent manufacturer.
Oh Photography,
I got you in my eye.
A few thousand dollars,
A BFA, A critical scholar.
Or maybe a nerd,
Just boys with toys.
Telephoto genitals, with motor drive action.
Studio lights, umbrella traction.
Oh Photography,
You proprietor of obscene.
Detailed, de-sensitized.
Court ordered, jury analyzed.
Click, image, copy, edit, paste, print or post.
Myfacespace, twitter, flicker,
An internet media overdose.
Pry, spy, your friend's friend's acquaintances.
Parties, picnics, reunions and shows.
Visits, vacation, style, shoes and clothes.
Pics, photos, images, jpegs and giffs.
Snap shot, portrait, panoramic, Kodak kiss.
Exacerbate:
Divorce, break-ups, jealousy, envy, love and fears.
Devour and captivate society for years.
Slaves to Western and Capitalist desires,
Destruction of Earth with psychological, monetary empires.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
In a sermon, the preacher says:
*"The Lord created us in his image,
all who desecrate themselves
too destroy a part of God."*
I've murdered pets and
alphabetised people by
sense and style and laughs like
a rack of dresses.
I've kissed girls just because
they said they could never like me
like that
as if their lips were some
sacred maiden's blush and not
a pair of fleshy rims.
As if I couldn't read their
***** little lesbian fantasies
underneath those
angel faces.
Susan from accounting thinks I need
to see a therapist. I think she needs to see
a mirror. We don't really get along, but ****
maybe if drink enough
these clocks
these blue collars
these billboards with the pearly white teeth
won't look like straightjackets anymore.
I have this thing where
sometimes I'm just so tired
of being a body.
The world's a ******* advertisement,
Everyone with their scripted
good mornings and
chemical feelings
down to the last **** t.
My skin is a cage
and I'll strip it off like
a *****
Why be happy when you
could be interesting?
Love like a bluejay,
Fists in our stomachs-
The headlights of a car coming
at 80 miles an hour straight at you,
pummeling in a stream of light.
The taste of a cigarette after
it's been on someone else's lips.
Don't you dare tell me you understand.
When I tell her this
my therapist only smiles,
Darling it's only purgatory.
Allen knew. Nietzsche knew. Woolf knew.
In all our hearts-
We've already killed God.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
I cried at the breakfast table this morning
my father carefully explained,
"wives must be submissive to their husbands"
"housecleaning is the domain of the woman"
"God created woman because man asked for a partner"
This past semester I wrote two papers
One, a fire and brimstone sermon
I quoted Anais Nin
sending the creators of sexist commercials to eternal suffering
**** them!" I said. "May they burn in hell."
For the women they portrayed were doormats
Misconceptions
Monsters
The other, the role of women in the 1920s,
No longer confined to the kitchen
they dropped ballots with their new freedom
they wore short dresses and short tresses
fingers wrapped around cigs
they quoted Wilde instead of Alcott
they danced until their feet hurt
I read of Anais Nin's "new woman,"
her partnership, not submission to man,
I craved a room of my own, neigh demanded it
For sheep stayed in the kitchen,
The Woolf had a study.
I read poetry
Sexton,
Plath,
I wept for their starved, depressed selves
caged, suffocating inside the clasped hands of a man.
Loved like rib-cage jails.
Adrienne Rich made me angry,
her daughter-in-law
forever trying to fit into a box
she was always too big for, spilling
at the edges, her shaved
legs like "white mammoth tusks"
I was finally
happy with my womanhood.
****** ****** ***** ********
they are mine.
******* free to move unrestrained,
jiggling under my shirt.
Wetness between my thighs.
Menstrual blood,
they are mine.
mine.
I am not ashamed of what I am
because there is no shame.
I am woman,
I am girl,
I am lady.
I am a creature
with a voice
a mind.
a creature who endured much abuse,
continue to endure.
I am woman
and I don't have to be wife or mother
unless I want to be.
I was not created for man;
I was created for the same reason he was,
to serve the same great purpose on this tiny blue dot.
I am not rib.
I am ****** ****** ***** ********
******* free, unrestrained,
Wetness between my thighs.
Menstrual blood,
I am a per.
I am a wo.
I am a hu.
Man and son need to back down,
collaborate not dominate,
speak not command,
for when less are forced into silence,
the maddening scream
hidden inside skin and bones and muscle-meat
becomes song.
this world of car horns and tire screeches
crying and wailing from raw throats
angry protests of indignation
could use a little music.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
Mozart,
deaf,
died, eventually.
Picasso, pervert, died; Whitney, Winehouse, drugs, dead; Elvis, Methamphetamine, died
(on the toilet).
Van Gogh,
missing an earlobe,
died.
Plath,
head in an oven,
in front of her kids,
Woolf
Patron saint of insanity, I guess
waded into a river and-
River. River Phoenix. Drugs.
Natalie Merchant wrote that song about him in 1995.
Flash forward.
Me, twenty-one, drunk.
Proprietor of a collection of lackluster poems.
Sold their small, nonbinary soul to the Devil
in exchange for a fortune,
gone.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
“You cannot find peace by avoiding life.”
“As a woman I have no country. As a woman I want no country. As a woman, my country is the whole world.”
“No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.”
“There was a star riding through clouds one night, & I said to the star, 'Consume me'.”
“I am rooted, but I flow.”
“So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say. ”
― Virginia Woolf
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
The inadequate bookshelf that sat near the door
that my sister used to call her own was
mostly made up of adolescent reads,
books better suited for preteen girls rather than
intellectually budding young ladies—
juvenile vocabularies and simple, non-complex
plot lines do little to craft and create
worldly, knowledgeable women.
I thought I must spring clean the
naiveté away and replace it with
the works of great authors like
Sylvia Plath
Simone de Beauvoir
Virginia Woolf
Margaret Atwood
Betty Friedan;
ingenious femme fatales that cut down
to the brittled bones of the misogynists
and burned their marrow along with the
ashes of bras and aprons and 350 degree oven heat.
Growing up, to me, seemed like a wonderful epiphany
chock-full of ideas and opinions and
clever, ironic remarks that chased satirical witticisms
like felines to rodents and wolves to deer—
being an adult would guarantee me a say,
a vote
prior 1920’s America
play dress up as a suffragette
women’s rights
femininity personified by dolls in plastic houses.
To be eighteen-years-old,
the goal, the legality, the bright light at the end of the tunnel;
the official womanhood it would bestow upon me
seemed like something almost tangible
with the way that it loomed over my head.
Get good marks
graduate high school
travel back in time sixty years
meet a nice boy
become a “good wife”
have dinner ready by five
bear two beautiful heirs
clean up the messes left in the kitchen
fast-forward to the twenty-first century
go to a good college
find a stable career
settle down if the fancy strikes you
live non-docile and full of passion—
the parallelism of times are severely
di
lap
i
dat
ed.
1950’s America would never be a home for me
because I am much too wild to be contained.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
Scene 1:
(Periwinkle room, Jigglypuff poster, soft alternative music)
I stomp in,
Niagara Falls streaming
Throw his copy of Pablo Neruda poetry into the trash
And start reading Virginia Woolf
Poetic revolution.
That’ll show him
Scene 2:
(Cafe atmosphere, fading laughter, upbeat music)
Whoa. That guy. Not that one.
The one on the left
Kinda nice, kinda cute
And he laughed at my joke
Jane Austen romances
and Zooey Glass daydreams
fill my waking moments
Scene 3:
(Restaurant, muffled conversations, classical music)
What is he staring at? Who is he staring at?
Oh no awkward conversation gap
Say something,
quick, anything
“The weather is nice tonight, yeah?”
Not that.
But he laughs
Night saved
Scene 4:
(Outside the restaurant, night breezes, car noises)
“That was nice,”
He casually mentions
Yeah. Nice.
Not great. Amazing. Life-altering.
Nice.
The same adjective used to describe the weather
Devoid of meaning.
Scene 5:
(Car, radio on silent, crickets chirping)
“I wanted to give you something”
Hands me,
Oh dear god no,
A copy of Neruda
That ****** Neruda.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC
When he speaks,
sometimes I hold my breath
like I hold his hands.
Drowning above water,
caught in the riptide of
Lust and Language,
seems like such a foreign concept.
At least it was before I met him.
I can feel my heart
as it palpitates
and the arteries
that throb just
below my skull...
They silently beg me to
let go of what his words
do - the pressure they place
on my lungs.
Winded like prey
who has just flown
from the ravenous predator.
I feel torn apart
more often than saved.
And right now, I ******* hate metaphors.
Who knew it was possible
to anticipate
that the way you may die
would actually be
the only way you ever lived?
Always caught up in
someone else's words.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
"She did the laundry
in the mirror of me
I saw myself in
the mirror and disagreed
with the smell,
The thought of you
was beautiful,
but I was wrong,
and a feeling of discontent
-ment
came over me,"
Misspellings
Mispronunciations
An unconquerable world
of big money
I parted ways with the large
and saw another even larger world,
One that was intelligent and reads
the Wall Street Journal, listens to NPR,
and says "wow" at the sound of hearing
one million dollars, or upon hearing about
San Francisco start-ups,
or Silicon Valley.
Or the opposite, in some ways, but still very
similar to - Virginia Woolf.
whose book on feminism
which I'm unable to explain fully other than
to say that she suggests
that women only need
a bedroom, money, clothes, etc.,
or rather, less than etc.
in that, they need little, but only the bare supplies.
That they should be able to supply themselves with what they need
for when their husband, which, you know, is not required, in her eyes,
for when he separates from her
and leaves her 'in the dust,' alone without anything,
perhaps only with a child, or in another instance, estate-less,
with only a white dress, really more of kitchen-robe than anything else;
like Virginia Woolf says, we should really try and dismantle the patriarchy
that we write and tell about. Reader, what do you after reading a story, article, or book on radical or moderate feminism say? The boys, like me, who will tell, or, try to tell their perspective of the book and say to the closest person around them, "I just read a great book by Virginia Woolf, she brings to mind an image of a university with white buildings and ends of roofs of university buildings leading along to the the main hall of architecture buildings, with sidewalks pristine and underneath people walking in their sweaters, collegiate, and later to make their way to art history classes in the fall evening. So, like Virginia Woolf, who makes you ask why you're not at the Parthenon, but instead are inside of your house, in a city that you don't want to be in, at a hospital, in your apartment, or surrounded by whoever, she nevertheless gives you have a feeling of longing-ness and a strong emotion of want. Virginia Woolf when will we go to Greece together? What do you know about Athens and classical architecture, I nearly beg you.
December 30th 2018 7:11am
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC
Once I looked to the Bard for words profound;
ageless, his wisdom ran unabated.
Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound,
“the slings and arrows” historically Iocated.
I wept for the creature of Frankenstein,
spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth.
But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm
by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth.
I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James
describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible.
Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games
I find them morally reprehensible.
I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe
or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed,
but Fenimore and Defoe have to go,
they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed.
Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down
to see what magic flowed when he was ******
The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town
dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”.
I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own
and be one of the boys with Hemingway,
but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone
say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray.
No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly,
no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse;
Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly
dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss.
The Bible shows intertextuality
says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida.
Judas, a construct of bisexuality?
The **** fixations of Herod are?
It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure.
I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
THE TRUE STORY
The wolf sat on the ground.
Little Red Riding Hood
sat at his feet.
"Well, well, well, so
here we are again!"
said Mr. Woolf in a faux
English accent
he had picked up from watching
Peter O'Toole be Lawrence of Arabia.
"Some apple juice my dear
have some apple crumble do!"
enquired Mr. Woolf of his
fairy story cohort.
"I baked it myself you know
molasses instead of sugar
gives it that dark flavour
oh and a little touch of ginger!"
Little Red Riding Hood
wolfed down the apple crumble.
Sipped...slurped
noisily through a bendy straw
annoying the silence that
gathered itself around her.
There was a piece of apple
crumble on her nose.
For a little girl she
had a big appetite.
The wolf ate nothing.
"We can't go on like this
any minute now a child
somewhere in another
somewhere
will start our story
by opening a book.
I will be called upon
to eat you and Granny up.
I don't even like
grannies for gawd's sake!"
Mr. Woolf had tears that
refused to fall.
It's got...it's...got
to somehow stop!"
Little Red Riding Hood burped.
"Pardon!"
So, when the child I used to be
opened the story once
upon a time it was
simply not there.
There was nothing there.
Nothing but a great big ****** blank.
Somewhere in another somewhere
Little Red Riding Hood
swung on a swing
Mr. Woolf pushing her
higher and
higher into
a summer blue
sky.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 3:27 PM UTC
He was one of those guys who marry money.
And you can grok that in any sense you desire.
But be forewarned, my friend,
I am well-versed in a multitude of
Marry-For-Money manifestations.
Take, for example, marrying the Boss' daughter.
Come with me, for illustration's sake,
Join me in one such dis-functional household:
George & Martha's place on campus--
A classic Tudor-revival home,
Ivied & plushly-appointed,
A coveted faculty perk
Which goes along with the gig.
And the gag, for that matter.
I speak, of course, of Edward Albee's
Two perversely miserable humans,
Married to each other, to wit:
George & Martha, leading lives of
Pubis-scratching desperation, in
"Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"
She's the only daughter--
Daddy's precious jewel--
Only girl-child of the President
Of a small, rural college.
He's the middle-aged professor
With no great pedagogic or research prowess.
His working-class perspective,
Viewing the quiet academic life to be
A significant step up in genteel existence.
Except--and there's the rub:
Mere existence is a far cry from
Living the good life Dan Draper &
The rest of Satan's Mad Men minions
Taught him to take for granted.
So George & Martha,
In terms of core values,
Have little in common;
More like opposites, in fact:
His starvation diet as a child &
Her helping out Mom at the
Food Bank on Saturday mornings.
It's those formative razzmatazz years,
He lacked the behavior blueprint,
The overwhelming fatigue of acting.
He's perpetually memorizing lines,
Practicing ****** expressions &
Physical gestures & phrases.
Guard up, another Oscar-worthy performance,
Burton is superb & Elizabeth Taylor
Showing us precisely why she is &
Will continue to be revered as an actress.
George knows she has his number.
The thing about the play is the
Intense malice the couple feel for each other.
For the audience, an experience in stage drama
Best classified as an intensely painful morality play.
A good thing to remember: Live Theater
Adds value to a community.
Give generously, please!
But I digress.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 12:27 AM UTC
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide, self-harm, and eating disorders⚠
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IS PATH WARM
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i wish i was dead
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 1:49 PM UTC
The Muses, in the abstract, the women had guns and ****
and the course of experience only calls to a corner of the empty,
the knees of the flames, the tongue, the beauty of the girl,
the garden of skin, and its highest folly
that he was caught is so bitter: ***** was broken fat,
and there is a sound activate the body's kisses to **** the light,
I took hold of you feel a broad and six of its public
and I live by half the spirit of the origin of a teenager,
developers their walk by the body assigned to the ***
we are speaking of the cold; to drive out by his sweating winds
of the rainy warm-up did not watch,
but the **** in your mouth took her by all the colors of Asia,
stood a picture with nailed Satan,
is white dieth he shall carry WOOLF's augur shall give to drink
to meet the ode, the lover is moved,
the motion of the kidnapper
is of a strange god of time,
die without a goddess of the six that is,
of the Jews, he sat down, seeming to be the main parts
of each single instance, making them to pass;
His praise I remember right,
that the greater should be nil but nearly naked in the streets;
look at what the girls are wearing;
a bandage roll to a plural number
of prostitutes of dreams, imagining a human face on the ******
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 10:25 AM UTC
I would not recommend Madness
distrust runs riot
dissecting myself with wings clipped deemed a flight risk
and I'm naked lay face down on the bed
and I trace tramlines
of forgiveness
because my mauled body pays
penance and I am my own
whipping boy who sees me as
a war zone of self-destruction
an addict to my own sickness
bat **** crazy
like those female poets
and their creative madness
Sexton, Plath, Bishop, Woolf
and Merini and Kane
and I prayed: Lord
forgive me for my sins
I would not recommend
Madness
© Sia Jane
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
I am
Words
Infinite and bright
on a computer screen
Confusion
the Stars and
the Moon
Et pages meos
Libros illiterato
Plath, Woolf
but a little more sane
Wandering silently
Barefoot and
Enamored
Am I.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
She bobs in the water
pale cork, pale-haired
lily pad with tendrils in the
deep cold dark.
(Stones in her pockets,
they said later, a Virginia Woolf
rip-off.)
I see her from my bay window.
She gleams as she floats;
she startles the ducks.
I wait for the joggers to find her,
bouncing along asphalt until
they trip on the light slanting
off her.
It's early, though.
The sky is still bleary-eyed and bloodshot.
Red sky dances along the water.
Apr 1, 2011
Apr 1, 2011 at 5:36 AM UTC
“My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.”
– Virginia Woolf, Selected Letters
Reading Virginia,
as if I understand her morals.
“Do not,” She has written.
Analyzing Woolf,
“One cannot think well,” she says.
my tongue is dry of new air, to “…love well…”
“…sleep well…” – Nightmares mostly,
leftover sleep and a dew of overdue promises
evaporating off my lips, purging with blood.
She ended, “…if one has not dined well.”
I began: “Do Not Speak to me about Hunger;
Speak to me about War.”
Here I stay: barefooted in between
airport tile floors – they tell me,
Gritting my teeth to the dreams,
forbidden desire and will to shining silver linings.
The cruelty, unrivaled, taking parts of a dream,
leaving most to die, but she’s hungry,
they told her the war’s over, but she won’t heel,
filling a God-sized with infused useless poetry madness.
- Emilyn Nguyen
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
Love is this...
.......
............
,,,,,
catkin feet rotating the underdressed night under a casino wheel of stars
..........or else a Tempest of Soul loud as a fishmonger
...............99p cola bottles & lonesome underdogs
.............that time you laughed on helium
... 'fuck me' neon signs in the street
...................sweet onion breath delirium
.................Millais's Ophelia all wasted & peeling from suburban billboards.
......................the time Virginia Woolf drowned & all the birds
forgot how to sing in Greek.
..............are we there yet
..............are we feeling the beat, beat, beat
..............of this raindrop
.........................do we need postage stamps.
................................why is your neighbor called Pete.
.........why did you kick a dog, Mamma.
............nothing is that which is understood
............why are you staring at this poem.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
Off to 'The Orchard' for afternoon tea
Beautiful and quaint, filled with history
Rupert Brooke, the poet, started the trend
Taking tea in the garden 'til the days end
Virginia Woolf, a writer, with a troubled mind
Enjoyed the bonds of friendship with a group so kind
It goes as far back as the year 1897
Cambridge students found a pocket of heaven
Blossoming fruit trees arranged in rows
Scattered seating, cushions and colourful throws
Crumbling moist Scones with jam and cream
Carrot Cake and Cordial an Elderberry dream
Horses in the distance and cows by your side
Cool Emerald grass where the insects hide
A wander by the river hand in hand
The most peaceful day that ever was planned
I visited The Orchard yesterday, a most gorgeous place. I hope this poem gives you a picture of this idyllic little corner of England x
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
How easy my thoughts are lost
in you and simpler still my body pulled
into you held down by the weight
of the earth I’ve filled my pockets
with. I push my way into this welcoming
water’s body. I do not want to go,
but the ocean’s thundering applause
and its frigid love under my toes
sweeps me off my feet
as waking gulls
mourn the triumph of the sea.
Jun 22, 2011
Jun 22, 2011 at 6:39 AM UTC
I guess it’s fitting that you’re made of star dust.
Each part of you from a different corner of the world.
I bet the sparkles in your eyes, were once flecks of the sun
and the salt of your lips were at one time part of the sea.
Because your voice is the warmth of a summer day,
Your laugh like thunder
Your touch electricity.
I’m almost sure your mind was once a part of some great poets,
Like F. Scott Fitzgerald
Or Virginia Woolf
And your hands must have belonged to Monet.
Your teeth look like skyscrapers from down here
And the city inside of you is about to swallow me up.
Like the deepest parts of the ocean
Your innermost thoughts are hidden and untouched
Even from me.
Like the bottom of a secret lake.
All I want to do with you is everything.
Because you’re this perfect being that makes everything better.
And I love you.
And somehow, you love me too.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
( for Virginia Woolf)
Light & dark collide
her life is a palimpsest
of butterfly memories
of twisted ills & happiness
viewed through a pin hole
captured in black & white
The Lighthouse still stands
in St Ives where it always was
where she used to go as a child
she writes “ Mrs Dalloway”
& eats conference pears
Occasionally she hears the birds
singing in Greek as they fly by
Death, which will claim her is always waiting.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
i'm taking a class on persian poetry
i don't speak persian-
my taste in poetry has always been
more bukowski than rumi
a little too western, a little too crude
*but then there's you
with poetry flowing
at the tips of your fingers
and the edges of your heart
you read poetry
as if it were the bible
making every word
sound holy and every
sentence more scripture
than art
and when you recite
it's like thunder
and ice
it's fire with
just enough passion
to burn for centuries*
you're the hafiz
to my plath
and i never quite understood
your language but
i loved it any way
and i tried to speak
it but my words were
always
too western, too crude
and yours
*yours like a burning candle
in the middle of winter
it's a small light
but enough to keep me warm
and the darker the night
the cooler the weather
the warmer the flame
that burns bright*
you were my ferdowsi
and khyyam
and i was still somewhere
between woolf and
dickinson
their worlds made sense
to me more than
persian passions
that i always wanted
could almost taste
but never swallow
but you feasted
i'm taking a class on persian poetry
i don't speak persian-
*but it brings me one step
closer
to you.*
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 3:45 PM UTC
I'll pretend that the rain isn't already
falling in my chest
when you ask me to drown with you.
Didn't you know?
Or did you choose to look away?
Because when I read about the way
Virginia Woolf wrote her own
ending,
filled her pockets and waded right in,
I didn't feel pity
like everybody else.
I understood.
I'll pretend it's not really so
knife-edged
when you say that
I'm only a lie on your page.
And that that diffusion
of red and
blue,
dirtying your thoughts
is just a mirage,
the work of some crayons and pen
only you
hold in your hand.
I'll pretend my spine isn't caving in,
trying to prop me up
against the onslaught of
myself.
And you.
And him.
And whoever he is.
And all your eyes, blurring
into one green light that only seems to
fade.
I'll pretend somebody loves me.
And he isn't afraid.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 4:21 AM UTC