Eva Moe

Tag: poetry

  • Art History

    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

  • From the Journal: Angry rewrite of The Road Not Taken

  • Lemon Water

    Yesterday, I flipped through my journal and found the section of doodled faces. I wrote this draft based on the drawing.

  • From the Notebook: Student

  • Moonshine

    In the dark they called me Moonshine.
    That liquor in a glass jar.
    Holy water.

    They baptized me in hogwash
    made in someone’s basement’s rusty sink.

    Moonshine they say.
    Not the boozy white reflection
    on a wrinkled black lake.

    Moonshine.
    Back alleys.
    The kind you shout mistakes at
    Your footsteps echo in the rain
    Someone pees in the corner.

    I could be the summer sunrise
    The painted lake
    Gulls in the sky.
    My own name.
    But I’m stuck as the hooch.

  • shield

    you are warmer than fever in
    me that was
    the wing-ed beast
    of legend in
    me for
    a moment that soft
    pressing
    every where I felt
    light
    sun
    it was how light
    is so fast and
    blind to itself.

  • Nancy’s Song

  • Don’t Look Inward Whatever You Do

    Don’t Look Inward Whatever You Do
    Doug said to look inward
    but it’s winter there.
    He doesn’t know I can swallow a whole snowman
    and my belly stays fat until I go to the equator.

    The doctor put a stethoscope on my chest and said
    she heard a black hole purring.
    I worry science doesn’t know whether
    one comes back from that.

    Who knew Dr. L was also a court stenographer?
    She said Quiet Let Me Dictate
    I said Sure and heard
    “I know you in the black.
    In the caves between pixelated dreams
    I can steal you anytime”
    I said Shit Doc What Do I Do
    and she was like
    “don’t call me Doc”
    so I said, “just tell me how to fix this”
    and she hypothesized
    “if the core of your persona grows in a terrarium
    you should drink 3 buckets of water a day for a week to drown any evil roots”
    I don’t know where she got “terrarium” but long story short
    NASA’s bringing me down to Huntsville, Alabama on Thursday
    which is very far away from Doug.

  • The Red Dawn | La Madrugada Roja quickwrite

    I’m sorry but I can’t write a poem for you. There was nothing beautiful about your death I wasn’t even there, I heard about it on Snapchat when our buds were at your wake & thought how fuckin lame is my relationship with my friends that I’m the last to know & then I thought you’d give me a big ole smack of words, you destroyer, for making your absence about me. I can’t write about it, I’m sorry. Every literary device I throw down sits in my mouth like raw garlic & nothin’s sweet or sour, Madrugada. What’d you do when they told ya? look in the mirror & tell your brain “you bastard”? look at your hands & wish they could fish hook it out of your skull like a scab? Did you deny your body’s betrayal or did you find it consistent? I can’t put it together. You know when the chemistry teacher says a gas will expand to fit its container? It’s just like that. All I wanna do is turn these poetic particles into liquid so at least they’d flow like the rushing stream of your memory but I’m all dried up. All I could do was pour Bacardi down the sink, I gave you two shots but didn’t tell because my roommate was callous and would hound me for wasting alcohol. I thought about you in Malaysia during a sunrise & spoke your name, La Madrugada Roja. You died seven months ago but this is the best I could do.