Sometimes there are five faces
of wow in our breath. You
never knew me. As a child,
howling under ice: still
I am two steps and running away,
never knowing moments of pleasure–
of us dying together so that we might
survive. Yet, what would I do
without you? Take away the moments
of love and anger: with no warning,
we are as fresh as Eden, crackling
green and whole, rising in one joyous
shout. Your light is pale:
the fantasy, my deliverance.
I am your ghost. Deliver me
from hiding and cold memories.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged Cherry Pickens, Femdom poetry, Feminist poetry, KaTe, Kate Bush, Love and Anger, Poetry, poetry as a writing exercise, Running Up that Hill, What it takes to write, zen and writer's block, zen and writing
I want to mold Jesus
into seven major awards,
and name them after
and dim bulbs, too shattered
to switch off the lights. I want to
tell God just what I think about preachers
and the Word. I want to take the boys and girls
too young to know switch-backs and S-curves
through blood sacrifice, rape and incest,
until they understand that the death of every living thing
means every living thing is dead, then teach them Soddom
and Gommorah, and fill their mouths with salt
until they can’t breathe. I want to give them a knife
and a lamb and an apple, and say: Choose the red flesh
you’ll give to God. I want to bathe in the blood of Lilith:
the earth from whence I am sure I came, and to whom I shall return.
We have a Tuvan throat: two
voices in one mouth. Our tongues
twine to a cry, twist
to moan. Until morning,
when we wake up
and you are there:
we separate and go
our own ways until night.
Under cover, we find our voice.
and she was like, i don’t know who
you are anymore. and i was like
a bit of green fuzz caught in her
sweater. (a dog could have left
me there, coughed out after the cat
dance.) and she said, last saturday
i lied, and said i didn’t smoke
anymore. (not since the fire.)
I want to write. I really do. The challenge is finding a plot.
I’m a seat-of-the-pants writer. I start out with a character and a few sentences, and then I see where the story takes me. It’s worked out okay. I have a few short stories and hundreds of poems.
The poems are easier. Less than a few hundred words in a poem. And I can spend days on finding just the right words. But that’s not a problem. A few days – or weeks – really isn’t that much of a commitment. It sounds like a lot, to those who don’t write poetry. But trust me. Finding the perfect words in just under two weeks is easy.
But stories and novels take a lot longer than that. Months. Sometimes years. A year for me is a weighty commitment. Hell, most of the time, I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow, let alone three months from now.
So sitting down and starting a project that will be 50,000 to 150,000 words is really quite a task.
But I want to write. I really do.
I just have to find that story that will hold my interest for the year that it takes to write it. Of course, if it holds my interest, I’m betting it will hold yours.
Meantime, I’ll keep my day job. It’s a sucky place to work, and I hope one day to be free. But for that, I have to write.
I really do.
photo credit: Βethan via photopin cc