Art History Poem

Hello!
Last week I reached my 50,000 word goal for the month of November! To anyone else who participated in National Novel Writing Month, congratulations! This year, I wrote 50k words of poetry. On Monday, I started reading through and revising.

To be honest, most of it is garbage. But there’s a lot of stuff in there with potential. Such as:

November 6
Poem 9
Here’s what I learned in Art History:
A woman in a Renaissance painting has powdered white skin (no other color)
and never farts
or shits
or vomits after too much wine.
No one has to hold back her pompadour
while she pukes up her servant-made supper into a golden chamber pot.
She doesn’t do drugs or smoke.
Her somber expression pouts at the painters.
The world’s first selfies.

Now, I don’t agree with the last line even though I wrote it. The argument can be made that the world’s first selfies were actually cave paintings and little sculptures done long before Renaissance painting was a thing. Anyway, I’ve got LOTS of editing to do.

See you soon,
Eva Moe

So I Leave

Hello,

This one’s possibly two years old now. Since I’m writing so many new poems a day for NaNoWriMo (and my book), I thought I should share a few of my older poems.


 

What he said was good grammar
good tone, good smile
How much does an artichoke weigh
How much Truth Do You Want

How Hard do I Tap my Feet so he Hears I wanna be light
as a dancer on a drum
Do I sing or scream through my window
& how sweet do I make the sound?
The longer I stay the faster my forearms feel dumb

From him I inherit a thousand
tiny vases of jagged glass
in my gums and stutter
on the first word I think to say
and find there is nothing to express

-So I Leave

Re: Housman

I to my perils
came not like A.E. Housman
“clad in armor by stars benign”
I swam to them in my PJs
hair kinked, water logged
and trouble was a bonfire.

Trouble was the thing he kept his mind on huh
Trouble was the thing he took to supermarkets
hoping This was the day
right by the spinach
he could be a true and worthy victor
‘cause his mind was in the game.
Did he want to prove himself stronger than us
the mortals who wished for everything sweet

I wished too hard for time to pass
and passing is the great gift and curse of prickly knees.
I tugged myself through marshes by tufts of leg hair
to which I gleamed a shining eye to Hope
I’d not trifle with a fleeting love
or luck money or mock fame.

Turns out every part of me is mortal fool,
and Housman, he’s under the stars
Hands behind his head, grinning
because he left out a stanza.