Saturday, December 29

Feel My Deep and Wild

We can rarely change the way we do things, without the way we do things changing the things we do. And yes, by “we” I almost always mean “moi”. This is the reason why I am not all that surprised by the fact that I have been finding myself inking poetry into my storytelling and plotting longer tales into the bones of my poem(ing).

The same can be said about the books I read in 2018. I delighted in fiction and nonfiction with poetry in mind. And the poetry books that touched me the most planted stories in the inside of my chest and skull. The poem that follows was partly inspired by a handful of the books whose themes or structures or styles stuck (and will probably linger, for a while):

If you want to feel me, luv,
truly feel me and my ticker
go wild, just Poe me a bit.

Fill my brain housing group
with girls who know how to feed
on bonfires, on life slashing
truths (with a little Plath).

Crack my chest,
watch my blood breathe of springs
turned winter
(reckless thing!) without letting go
of warm blooms.

Caress my thighs with your wings, let flesh do human things to spirit. Luv, come with me... in the dark and bright of balanced chaos (no pretensions).   

Want to feel me, luv,
truly fill my deep and wild?
tale me and poem.

the wee notes…
- while reading The Clockwork Orange (a fave of moi), Björn dreamed up a prompt that asks us to “Write a poem in slang, by either using slang you are versed in or create it from another language you know” and such. I am not versed in slang. All right, I rather sucketh at the art of slanging it. So, I went ahead and grabbed some wee bits of Marine Corps lingo, word-played with Poe, weaved innuendo into the mix, linked it to The Garden, and hoped. 

- the titles that inspired the poem (and intro): The Poet X by Elizabeth Acevedo, Dr. Susan Love’s Breast Book by Susan M. Love, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, Seasons Defined by Khaya Ronkainen, and The World Doesn’t End by Charles Simic. I will probably tell you more about these books in a future post. I shall stop here, before some of you start running (in self-defense) from the nutty writer/reader who won’t stop ink-adoring.

detail from the cover of The Poet X