I am constructing my reality with unreal, otherworldly materials. It is almost poetic, this outstanding self manipulation. -Sylvia Plath
Tuesday, 20 December 2016
Sunday, 18 December 2016
First Times
My first poem was
supposed to be a love
poem, the way all poems are
straightaway or indirectly;
something about poems
makes love a fundamentality.
supposed to be a love
poem, the way all poems are
straightaway or indirectly;
something about poems
makes love a fundamentality.
It was
supposed to flow like
a river, the way water
cuts and polishes
stones it traverses;
something about poems
needs a sculpting, a finality.
supposed to flow like
a river, the way water
cuts and polishes
stones it traverses;
something about poems
needs a sculpting, a finality.
And it was
supposed to hold up candles
to light up the world, the way
stars guide sailors out of tragedy;
something about poems
is poultice to calamity.
supposed to hold up candles
to light up the world, the way
stars guide sailors out of tragedy;
something about poems
is poultice to calamity.
Instead,
my first poem was of heartbreak,
how hearts are supposed to
beat only till one day
when they can't.
And despite how much you want
to say yes to life,
broken keys never chime.
my first poem was of heartbreak,
how hearts are supposed to
beat only till one day
when they can't.
And despite how much you want
to say yes to life,
broken keys never chime.
My first poem was about flowing-
the way a corpse
floats till it rots-
its meter all askew
and its lyrics frayed thoughts;
its raw nakedness was a fright.
the way a corpse
floats till it rots-
its meter all askew
and its lyrics frayed thoughts;
its raw nakedness was a fright.
My first poem was about the dark-
it consumed all light.
My first poem was not
supposed to be 'me.'
But alas, it was
and thus, didn't come out right.
it consumed all light.
My first poem was not
supposed to be 'me.'
But alas, it was
and thus, didn't come out right.
Friday, 9 December 2016
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