The Saddest Poem: A Response

You wrote the saddest lines, so
We could all cry for you, but
Instead we cry for all of ourselves
And the ones who remembered how to fly

Away. Where love, yours and hers, was supposed
To go on and live another breath and day
Like breathing yesterday that
Has been forgotten like a setting moon

Soon, the saddest lines will take up
No time. She drew a delicate line and
Her sometimes love was made of
Grains of sand, a poem falling to the soul.

Letting her go as if to bring her here
She used to be near. Your lines helped
Me reach out to touch her ear…
This may be the last poem we write for her.

______________________________________________________________

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Escribir, por ejemplo : ‘La noche está estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos’.
El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.
En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.
Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.
Oir la noche immensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.
Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.
Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.
La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos arboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.
De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto al amor, y es tan largo el olvido.
Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Aunque ésta sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.

Advertisements

This Girl Is Broken

This girl has been broken.
She’s been beaten, and she believes
That everything she is
Should be locked away
In a trophy cabinet of being ashamed.
Her world has taught her
To prepare for the worst
So now she lives inside every
What-if and maybe…
I can see her worth
But from her universe, she can’t.
This girl has been told too many times
That her unconventionality shouldn’t shine.
A child told too often to be quiet.
A woman over-chastised for crying.
This girl is broken and has no idea what loving means
Even herself, though she knows how it feels…
This girl is broken.
And I didn’t do the breaking; but I can repair her.

Burn

I’m on fire.
And I’m cold.
But it’s hot.
And all I can think
Is how…

It’s…

Like nothing
I have ever
Experienced before
And the thrill
Of being burned
Kills me…

Or it
Chills me?

You’re on fire.
I’m close to the heat
And it’s cold.
Flame meet gasoline
All we can do is…

Burn.

348 – Not Pretty Enough

(A performance poem)

Today, I watched the video on Youtube of a woman justifying her right by birth to feel beautiful.

She used phrases like “even though”, “in spite of”, and “despite everything” which brought tears to my eyes.

I wanted to wrap my arms around her size and tell her that she is more than the lack of a gap between her thighs.

What I really wanted to know about her wasn’t the number on the tag of her dress, but how she deals with stress. What it is that she thinks she gives to the universe, and how if she weren’t on this planet, life for someone would be just a little bit worse.

I wanted to breathe in her charisma.

I wanted to click my fingers in the front row to let her know that the poetry she’s slamming is changing me, rearranging me…

In a way that I will never be able to properly thank her for, her poetry was an attempt at saving me…

I was inspired by that big beautiful woman to start writing a new poem of my own called ‘People Who Love Me’ and to finish it by crossing off the name of anyone who has ever made me feel ugly.

For a long time I loved a boy who couldn’t tell me I was appealing, “even though” it was invariably him that instigated being with me sexually. I treasured him “in spite of” beautiful girl after beautiful girl he would love that wasn’t me. And I loved him despite the words he spoke casually.

Like ordering from a drive through…

“I don’t want to be with you.”

And then when I asked him to let me go, he said no.

Today I watched a woman speak about being loved in a way I’ve really only ever dreamed of. She smiled about being left behind as if it were a favourite past time; she acknowledged insecurity as something that’s perfectly normal, and anxiety as if one suffering should be loved anyway.

I was caught off guard by these remarks.

Because I also live in a society that says a scale and some numbers dictate the way it is okay for me to look. I live in a world that will not consider my experience or qualifications because I use crutches to walk. I’ve never been in love which I suspect is because the world has spent my life insisting that I’m not pretty enough.

I am more than what you think I consist of. I am a mountain of struggle, and strength. I am experience.

If nothing else, adjectify me for the capacity I have to forgive, and tolerate, and love.

If you need to validate me by the measure of a number, count the times I have decided on a person’s worth based on whether I like the way they look.

(None.)

Then quantify that number against your own.

345 – Pick Every Moment

You are the prettiest and most infuriating
That you have ever been, in this verse
And what’s worse is that it is a curse
Wanting to know how things go for you
I’m not a cat, but you could say that
Curiosity takes proper advantage of me
You’re something along the blurred lines
Of a mystery with multiple plot twists
So before we find out where fate rests
We have to pick every moment as if the
Person we happen to like the least
Might take it from the tree before me
Or us… Because y’know, all of the trust
And just…
You are the loveliest tune in this song
And when things go wrong the way they do
I hope sometimes you’ll still remember
How to play the melody of me and you

344 – An Idea Plucked From The Air

It used to be that I could pluck you from the air
Like the warm taste of an idea I was having
You’d be laid out perfectly in front of me
In the same way a full buffet would be
Morsels of sentences and thoughts
Inspired by cuisine I’d never tried before
Now, your punctuated rhythm is a destination
As yet untouched by the breath of any pen
Your secrets now have to be deciphered
Because they have spent too long hiding
From swords that might turn them into the
Unrequited poetry you never wanted to be
Our story starts on the edge of darkness
Waiting for a writer to love long enough

WordPress.com.

Up ↑