my constant headache
is a rose bush with flowers hanging so heavy
that the thorns dip into my lungs,
and drip blood out my nose
as dew on quivering leaves.
as i call out to you,
i spit red petals through cracking lips,
and you pluck them out one by one,
“he loves me, he loves me not”.
always hoping for the odd number of petals, and on 43 you stop.
swiftly, one last petal falls from my forehead,
resting like a soft sigh
as I wind cotton above my eyes.
maybe i was lucky
because he didn’t make
my body bleed
and the bruises
lucky because she
even if it was just
because i wanted her to.
because four is a lot less
than twenty, or fifty,
to speak louder
but he tells me again
he isn’t yelling,
with raised voice
and clenching fists,
and i begin to wonder
if his hands really did
touch my throat
or if i
was just hurting.
There is simply all horrendous poetry festering on this site.
As an undergrad, poetic communities concern me. I worry about their health, their success, what their plans are, etc. It’s like taking care of all your family members, young and old. You spend time with them, remember their birthdays, and make sure they have what they need.
But this place? I don’t know if it’s the fact of it being completely digital or a blogging site, but it’s mostly trash. Too many people on here posting under “poetry” or “poets on tumblr” have tried to emulate Tyler Knott Gregson, other Instapoets, or simply “spill ink” and utter uncrafted blathering.
(Though, I suppose you could blather craftily.)
Nobody gives concrete details, explores the nuances of language, writes about their feelings convincingly, and has few other objectives than farming for notes. Everybody is writing virtual diarrhea and they’re getting praise for it.
I just dare anybody who writes like I detailed to go to a workshop. Try getting a serious following. Try getting magazines to publish you.
It may just be I’m looking in the wrong place for this, and I would accept that. Tumblr doesn’t seem to be a rich place for much of anything. But if that, I’d like somebody to explain to me why others consider their drivel poetry. That’s all I ask for.
you’ll need soft, thin muslin and a needle and thread.
trace him out with a crayon. cut with a steady
hand. cut with the sharpest scissors you own. my mother
always said, you have to make it so your seams don’t show.
that means tiny stitches. that means slow going
and a sure needle.
take your time. soon you’ll sew up all your heartbreaks
fill him. fill him with beans, kernels, seeds: something
organic, something hard, like he was. stitch him tight up
the back. let your fingertip worry the seam like you used
to stroke his spine.
i wouldn’t suggest kissing him–he’s cool to the touch, all
lumps and cotton when your lips only remember silk–
but there’s no harm in it. not anymore.
pour yourself a glass of wine. pour him a draught of lighter
fluid. toss a match with one hand and toast him with
the other. close your eyes and listen to his stuffing
clatter to the ground. it will sound like hail,
this is what you make when you keep leaving fist-sized holes
in the walls.
when you can’t stand the idea of hurting him,
but you can’t stand him, either.
YOU WON’T FIND THIS ON PINTEREST, by jones howell