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
Of the many poems I wrote yesterday for NaNoWriMo, this one was my favorite.
I hit 30,000 words a few days ago. Hopefully on this long weekend I can catch up!
So moody. It looks like something a teenager would write on the inside cover of their wide ruled notebook.
This weekend I went to the Big Water Film Festival in Ashland, Wisconsin, as the film I worked on made it into the festival. Long story short, I forgot all about my money-making job (which doesn’t pay me what I’m worth and doesn’t allow me to utilize my strongest skills) and fell completely head over heels back into my creative brain. I breezed through conversations, initiated debates, made people laugh and included every person in our group into all of it. I experienced what it truly means to be in my element. I was among my people: creatives with ideas.
And now it’s Sunday night. I’m faced with the dread of returning to a job that kills my soul. For most of us, it’s a familiar feeling. Somehow by returning to work tomorrow, I feel that I’m letting myself down. What is my true potential? I should be questioning everything around me, making art in whatever medium I want. I should be playing.
This isn’t an idea that generates much sympathy. After all, in Corporate America, a balance of work and play is the formula for happiness. This idea has poisoned American workers for generations.
Work and play. How about work that feels like play? Play that is actually work? Something actually enjoyable that stimulates your mind and brings your inner strengths to the surface on a daily basis? That sounds like my type of job.
This isn’t an argumentative essay about the realities of “work”. Rest assured, it’s about me. Maybe you will find something useful in my anxious, panicked rant.
Work + Play = Balanced life.
Play + Time = Balanced life.
Here’s the thing.
I have so many ideas addressed to my attention
coming from a place of panic.
I don’t have to change the decade to feel I’m being bold.
2017, you see me at my parent’s house
forced to invent my own job.
I should record poems and put them on bandcamp,
quit the bosses and publish a book,
get on stage with my violin -> give everyone some music
whether they wanted it or not.
Where did the idea that work is not enjoyable
To be continued.
I’m eager to begin this year’s NaNoWriMo! This year, I’m working on a new volume of Sort of Super as well as continuing my book of random stories from my life.
This morning while having breakfast, my mom and sister asked about my poetry book.
“What even is a poetry book?” My sister asked. So I pulled a bunch of books off the shelf in my bedroom and returned to the kitchen. I pulled Pablo Neruda, Buddy Wakefield, Shel Silverstein, Robert Louis Stevenson.
Then I showed them Rupi Kaur’s book “Milk and Honey”.
“This one is a New York Times bestseller,” I said.
“Maybe that will be you!” Mom said.
My mom honestly thinks that I’ll finally have money if I publish a book. Like all it will take is one publication, then I’ll be famous and the dough will roll right in. LOL MOM NO.
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.