The class exercise

Tiny scraps of paper
ripping like knives,
dissolving into tears
oppressed, oppressor,
oppression
pieces of my life
carelessly thrown away
in a class exercise
(evidently)
aimed at me-
because I am not gay and
(therefore)
I don't get it

 

A dream

I met James from Metallica last night in my dreams.  We were at a home a bit like a dorm hall, with a main living area large enough for a small stage. In the dream it was my home, but I definitely didn’t recognize it. There were other rock dignitaries around (couldn’t tell you who), because for some reason we were there for a showcase of some band. During a break I was reading medical textbooks (I don’t go to med school!) and James had a hurt look on his face since I had wandered off.  Then everyone was sitting on the floor to watch this band who was evidently famous but also really short. I know this because after I laid down on my stomach next to where James was sitting on the floor (which I don’t do since I have breasts which prohibits this sort of posture), and after he started playing with my hair (which was much longer than usual but still had the curls on the end which when I was a cute little girl were called ringlets but now as a grown woman who is the same height she was when she was 12 is called naturally wavy hair), and after I had put my hand on his leg, I commented that the band was shorter than I expected, and since I am so short I was the expert on the matter.

James then launched into a speech which included things like: although I was an “itty bitty thing” I was big on integrity (or something like that) and that I was a good example of staying true to yourself (or something like that) and that we should “bump ships” sometime. Dream me was confused about exactly what he meant by that, and then he clarified about it not meaning sex, but more like getting together to hang out.

So then suddenly I’m meeting him on a busy street for our “date” (I got the impression it was in L.A. which, since I’ve only been there once, I have no idea how I knew that), and I’ve stared into his eyes and placed my hand on his chest and told a story about how a friend and I used to watch Metallica videos and argue about who was more attractive, (which I’ve never done) and he asked who did we decide? And I said based on my gorgeous fingernail polish (Giovanna by Zoya) it was obviously me, which both dream me and dream James thought was funny, since we both laughed.

 

 

-the joke was that my friend and I were arguing over which one of us was more attractive, not which one of the Metallica band members, guess you had to be there-

And then I switched over to a Champion store, where there was a lot of merchandise on sale because they’d had a flood in the store and where I spent a lot of money on non-flood damaged clearance stuff that I would never wear or want.

 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I never remember my dreams.  The fact that I remember this, to the point of some of the phrases that were said (bump ships?) means that I wasn’t fully asleep but rather in some half sleep half-awake state, which helps to explain why, when the alarm on my phone went off in the morning, I wanted to throw it against the wall, and yawned all the way to campus, and every time I drove by a Starbucks or a Dunkin’ Donuts or a BK I thought I really should pull in and get a coffee but never did, and wanted to shoot the tires of the car ahead of me because its gas pedal seemed to be broken. (Don’t do that at home, kids). It also might explain why when I finally pulled into a parking space and “Hail to the King” came on I thought for a moment it was Metallica, when it’s really Avenged
Sevenfold. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DelhLppPSxY

I’d say I hope I get some actual sleep tonight, but then I might miss meeting someone else.

 

 

For the day after Valentine's Day

You Foolish Men

  by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz
translated by Michael Smith

You foolish men who lay
the guilt on women,
not seeing you're the cause
of the very thing you blame;

if you invite their disdain
with measureless desire
why wish they well behave
if you incite to ill.

You fight their stubbornness,
then, weightily,
you say it was their lightness
when it was your guile.

In all your crazy shows
you act just like a child
who plays the bogeyman
of which he's then afraid.

With foolish arrogance
you hope to find a Thais
in her you court, but a Lucretia
when you've possessed her.

What kind of mind is odder
than his who mists
a mirror and then complains
that it's not clear.

Their favour and disdain
you hold in equal state,
if they mistreat, you complain,
you mock if they treat you well.

No woman wins esteem of you:
the most modest is ungrateful
if she refuses to admit you; 
yet if she does, she's loose.

You always are so foolish 
your censure is unfair;
one you blame for cruelty
the other for being easy.

What must be her temper
who offends when she's
ungrateful and wearies
when compliant?

But with the anger and the grief
that your pleasure tells
good luck to her who doesn't love you
and you go on and complain.

Your lover's moans give wings
to women's liberty:
and having made them bad,
you want to find them good.

Who has embraced
the greater blame in passion?
She who, solicited, falls,
or he who, fallen, pleads?

Who is more to blame,
though either should do wrong?
She who sins for pay
or he who pays to sin?

Why be outraged at the guilt
that is of your own doing?
Have them as you make them
or make them what you will.

Leave off your wooing 
and then, with greater cause,
you can blame the passion
of her who comes to court?

Patent is your arrogance 
that fights with many weapons
since in promise and insistence
you join world, flesh and devil.

Retrieved from http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21552

A Birthday by Christina Rossetti

A Birthday

  by Christina Rossetti

My heart is like a singing bird   
  Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;   
My heart is like an apple-tree   
  Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;   
My heart is like a rainbow shell 
  That paddles in a halcyon sea;   
My heart is gladder than all these,   
  Because my love is come to me.   
  
Raise me a daïs of silk and down;   
  Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,   
  And peacocks with a hundred eyes;   
Work it in gold and silver grapes,   
  In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;   
Because the birthday of my life
  Is come, my love is come to me.

-Retrieved from http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19440

How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43) by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
                                                                 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Retrieved from: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15384

El Beso by Angelina Weld Grimke

El Beso

by Angelina Weld Grimké

Twilight—and you
Quiet—the stars; 
Snare of the shine of your teeth, 
Your provocative laughter, 
The gloom of your hair; 
Lure of you, eye and lip; 
Yearning, yearning, 
Languor, surrender; 
Your mouth, 
And madness, madness, 
Tremulous, breathless, flaming, 
The space of a sigh; 
Then awakening—remembrance, 
Pain, regret—your sobbing; 
And again, quiet—the stars, 
Twilight—and you. 

                               


Retrieved from: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/23837

Action Poem by Helen Hoyt

Action Poem

  by Helen Hoyt

A Song to Wake Your Dear in the Morning

I kiss the locks of your hair:
Do you feel me there,
Sleepy one?

I will put a kiss on your brow:
Are you waking now?
Won't you wake, sleepy one?

A kiss on your left eye; on your right—
Closed tight, closed tight!
Oh, you are a hard one to wake!

A kiss on your nose
Where your deep breath goes,
Sleepy one!

Now a kiss for each ear:
Do you hear, do you hear?
Wake, sleepy one!

A kiss for this cheek; a kiss for this:
How many kisses you will miss!
Won't you wake?    Won't you wake?

Now I come to your lips that I love:
Oh, you are waking!    You wake and move!
Sleepy one!

Sleepy one,
My kisses are done.
Oh, you are a hard one to wake!

Retrieved from http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/23813

Wild Nights - Wild Nights! (249) by Emily Dickinson

Wild Nights – Wild Nights! (249)

by Emily Dickinson
                                                                 

Wild Nights – Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!


Futile – the winds –
To a heart in port –
Done with the compass –
Done with the chart!


Rowing in Eden –
Ah, the sea!
Might I moor – Tonight –
In thee!




Retrieved from http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19039






                               

Let's talk about sex, baby.

I tried to find a poem about lust to post on my blog (what do I know about writing about lust- for that matter, what do I know about writing poetry) because it is February, the month of lust, the month of my birthday, the month in which 9 months before my parents must have felt some lust (they couldn't have fought all the time).
I wanted a poem about lust by a woman- could a man's lust be like mine? What does he feel when he's inside me, when I'm tightening around him, back when that used to happen?


But the love/lust poems are by men, or are all rights reserved, not allowed, off limits, like the beautiful people who only date beautiful people. Could I find lust on the television, in the movies, in commercials hawking beer, by watching the plastic people fake fuck other plastic people?


I looked for Sor Juana de la Cruz (the erotic nun) poems, for Emily Dickinson poems, through Elizabeth Barrett Browning sonnets. Let me count the ways in which I feel lust for thee: for thy sense of humor, thy ability to quote literature, thy dark hair and piercing blue eyes, thy manliness that is not too muscle bound. If thee existed.


Let's talk about sex, baby. Or not- Jane Austen survived, I can too. Maybe I've just been looking for lust in all the wrong places. Perhaps I should be looking for lust in the Shakespeare and Lawrence poems. In Warren, in Cummings, in Auden, in Coleridge. In ashes and dust, for fire and light, for electric charges sizzling along my veins. For twitches and moans and the taste of sweat. For sated lazy stretches of trembling muscles. For clichés and originality.


I tried to find a poem about lust to post on my blog. Preferably one that I liked.

Masked

Peach swept, chocolate lined,
pink cheeked.
Naked-lipped, nude pouty,
touch of glimmer sparkle.
Nails flamed glitter.

Masked: ready.

Off to see the pyramids,
conquer the seas,
find the Loch Ness monster,
dance on the moon, rescue every
unwanted animal, tell the truth,
write a symphony, save the forests,
knit world peace, hide in a cave,
build the invisible plane,
talk to Jane Austen,

invent a time machine to take me back to fix it all.