Tuesday, September 27, 2011

here are a few lines of a poetry that i am trying to work on, there isn't a lot so i don't know if you can get anything from it really, but deal with it

Every hello is a goodbye in disguise.
And when I say "I love you", it really means
that I'm sorry, because I will promise you the stars,
but only give you a grain of sand.

Friday, September 16, 2011

so that last post was pretty personal and serious and deep and that is not what i like being so here is a recent poem that is kind of lighthearted!

SWM seeking Muse

single white male looking for whiskey soaked rhymes
and a heart full of blues lines. I need that
Delta sound filling me up inside.
So your flowery sonnets with their flowery
words need not apply.
If the meaning is lost in pretentiousness
it's a mess.
And I don't feel like cleaning it up.
If a poem needs translation
from English to english then
it's worth none of my time.
So let me repeat:

I need that Southern heat, that tea so sweet
it curls your toes
I need vine covered walls and portrait plastered walls.
I need lines that make you feel,
not make you think
so hard you get an anuerysm.
I need the passion, the pleasure of a Southern belle in bloom,
the sound of cicadas
and the company of good

So save your high brow speech for some other forlorn poet
Because I need you
to speak to me
Like a memory filled summer on a porch,
my blood thinned by whiskey and the air so humid
it leaves you
for more
so something i've never felt comfortable with is confessional poetry. i hate writing about myself, i absolutely abhor it. it's too personal, it's too close. i want to be able to say, "no, that speaker isn't me. no, that poem is about a made up story, it's completely fictional." i don't want to write about my life, because i feel like my life isn't worth writing about (yet?!). i don't want to write about my emotions because i know that i cannot do them justice. i don't want to write about major events because they deserve more than words that i haphazardly throw together and sentences that i break up arbitrarily.

is it something i'll get over?

i'm sure it is. i've noticed that if i just start writing, what usually ends up on paper is more personal than if i had sat down and developed an idea. i have written down things that i would never picture myself writing about, i have written about ideas that i thought were long gone. it is both a good thing and a bad thing, a blessing and a curse. i feel that as a writer and poet i should be able to write about the personal as well as the distant, i should be able to write about whatever my hands feel like putting on paper. i am starting to get there. i am starting to write more than just stories i make up in my head, i am starting to write about stories i make up with my life. life is all one big story after all, and the best way to live forever is for people to tell stories about you.

whiskey was involved in this blog post.

Friday, September 9, 2011

i am still alive

here is a poetries i quickly jotted down to practice on rhythm. i think it turned out okay. also rhythm is a weird word to spell

untitled (rhythm exercise)

in this frame of my life i'm the boy you never knew
fresh to the world not five feet tall
brown headed boy on the hood of a car
blue honda's hood meeting blue denim jeans
leaning over eyes closed kissing mom on the cheek
saying goodbye or saying hello, does it even matter?
no no no. know that this little kid
with the sunshine hair and the carefree air
always all smiles and laughing all the while
went extinct not too long ago
but a dinosaur fish off the coast of Brazil
came back from the past
so this little kid surely will