One of these days,
Someone is going to see what
Is beneath all of this makeup

And they're going to be
Thoroughly disappointed.

            "Eat, drink, and be merry...for yesterday we were dead."

Kevin Hester

And in this complacency,
Oh God!
Who's saving me?

I hope to be getting somewhere soon. 

On Writers

 On Wednesday, Dr. Rogers spoke on how the poets of the 17th century would call and respond to one another through their pieces. Ironically, I was blessed today with a piece by Kevin Dale Lundy (which I one day hope to share). It was a response to a piece I wrote in December. I was flattered and fell in love with it. So much so, that I intend on painting a piece based on our interaction.
 Often, when professors speak on poetry, I flinch or become uncomfortable. Though most of my professors have been writers of some kind, the vast majority have never written poetry. I always end up disappointed. For most of my professors, poetry has always merely been a bullet in their lesson plan. That is rough on someone whose lifeline is composed in stanzas.
 Dr. Rogers is the only professor I have ever had that has given a satisfactory definition of what a poet truly is. Moreover, I was moved by what he said. His definition took my breath away primarily because I saw myself in it, and it was revelatory for me; I realized why I compose the way I compose.
 I have lived my entire life trying to stop time. I have wasted so many days in efforts to put my life on pause. Dr. Rogers stated:

 "There is this constant common element in 17th century poetry of trying to stop time. All poets strive to stop time." 

  That is me. My writings have always been an effort to fully experience the succulence of memories before they are filed away in the rolodex of my mind. I know one day all of my emotions toward a particular situation will run dry. I long to nourish that wellspring for as long as I can, to feel it coursing through me with everything I have, and to create masterpieces with it while I still have the chance. 

  

 I love recording the process of falling in love, being in love, the process of grief, and the process of moving on. I am fascinated by the ongoing cycle of human emotion.

 God made me hypersensitive, not just emotionally and intuitively but physically. I am sensitive to light, sounds, smells, colors, temperatures. It is the most peculiar thing. It has only been over the past year that I have learned how to better channel my emotions. I used to be a wreck all the time. It is hard when you are easily influenced by a sound, or by a smell, or by the color of a scarf. But everything, everything--has poetry in it. There is magic at every turn just waiting to be written about. 

 If I am not writing then I am not doing my job.

 Writers have a major responsibility. Our calling is to capture the world--the exuberance of it; the sounds, the tastes, the smells, the tears. We must create beautiful things. Because there is no way to stop time, we must at least attempt to capture time. Over bold teas in delicately painted cups, we must place on paper everything that the weak world cannot see--so that they might see. Before it slips through the crevices of our fingers, we must let it spill over the brims of our spirits. And on leaflets, as fresh as morning dew--we must offer something much greater than ourselves to the world, so that the pursed lips of time will kiss the bruises of the grieving, and the ambitious stirring inside ourselves would be a contribution to the lifeless. Novalis wrote: "Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason." Our words--like honey--soothe the heavy laden, and offer breath to all the wounded days that have been stripped of time. 

Rue:

January wakes me earlier than any other season. I lie awake staring at the cylinder block wall and I count the divots in its stark, glossy surface. I avoid movement. The cold face of my tile floor waits to make contact with the bareness of my skin. I am not ready to face this winter.
I wasn't made for silver cities. I wasn't made for cold. It's bitter and the earth loses it's charm. I go without warm embraces, and the soothing of backs and bellies and rosy cheeks.
When the south collects its gold and emerald,
When the screen door locks itself up like
A secret,
I am reminded of why I wasn't meant for anything north of sugarplums on Mam's front porch. As sterling as he was...he couldn't keep me warm.

  Today, I lost myself in Pegram. I wove under the canopies of sharp, rigid, intertwining tree branches. Beneath them, the remains of their foliage wilted and molded slowly into the cool earth. I peered into the gray, and small pieces of sleet began to fall and melt upon my windshield. I observed the jagged landscape. There was beauty in the barrenness. January is always melancholy without you. I find myself aching for your hands, your breath, your pea coat, and to be young with you again.

  I miss our February love. I miss wrapping ourselves in scarlet, and rose, and plumeria. I miss the poetry of lace and lipstick valentines, and the way you'd place your beautiful, dry palms on my lower back to guide me gently as we walked.  

  I may never leave Tennessee. I may stay forever just to keep feeling you like this when the seasons change.

  Today I loved you
  From
  180 miles
  Away.  

My

She aches for me.
She pauses by landlines

--With the
Anticipation of a child--

Hoping that I might
Phone
Home.

I am melody.

I am broadness to her ears.

 She is Jade. She is ruby. She is opal.

 On Broadway nights,
 After a
 Spring rain

Her naked streets
Are damp and glorious.

Buildings glance down
To find their own
Perfect reflections
Staring back at them.

I will wait for her forever.

I will write to her in prose,
And in
Letters.

And as her fingers fumble for all
The
Ink silhouettes
That rest on her
Bedstand,

I will study her veiny hands
And how they have
Molded me
Into the woman

I am.

Her eyelashes
Span out past the horizon line.

Barefoot,
[And once with a boy]

I sat for hours
And memorized the landcapes of her body.

She spread her arms as far as the eye could see.

And when he left me,
[And I was alone]
She wrapped me up,

In my mourning
And in her morning,
And in her dew.

And we were enough.

We were cigarettes
And stopping.

We were plum lipstick
And all the the
Dirty words
And proclamations
Of clamoring
Banjo
Songs.

We observed boys with their hair slicked back,
In lace up boots,
With their jeans too tight,
And girls in
Acid washed denim.

We wrote compositions on verandas.
We learned to brew coffee
As bold as our
Beer chests
And
Furrowed brows.

Melodic my city.
My naked feet seep into you
And the soil
Of your precious gardens.
I sip tea with you;
I bring you flowers,
And whimsical stories
Of all my
Western
Wanderings.

From the Bedside of an Anorexic

    August 11, 2011:

    I observe my suite-mates, my sweet friends, my sisters in Christ. Always--there is the resentment of the buzzing, screeching, whirring alarm clocks. There is the "five more minutes" moan, the fussy, furrowed-brow frown, the flexing stretch, and the tussling of sheets as they crawl out of bed. There is the occasional quiet time, the whispered, breathy morning prayer, the washing of faces too oily, the obsession over cheeks "too round," or "too gaunt." There is the brewing of bold sumatras, or cheap and dependable Folgers blends. There is the scramble for locating cell phones for text messages from boys that might have arrived between restful eyes and dozing sighs. There is the occasional journal expert, reading of Twilight, or catching up on last night's homework. There is the battle of digesting the cafeteria's "pig-slop" gravy; there is always the rummaging for an alternative (such as cold pizza from the night before). 
  I observe these things. But all of them seem so foreign to me...so odd--so peculiar, yet above all things--so free. 
  If someone were to ask me: "What is the first thing you do in the morning?" I would not have to flip through the mental agendas of all my previous days--all my days, in all my chains to respond with: 
                       "I weigh."

  I weigh. I lift from my springy, creaking, Polsten Hall mattress. I place my bare feet on the cold floor. I avoid observing my reflection in the mirror. I strip down to nothing and--I weigh. I weigh because that number--that terrifying "heavy" number, or that glorious "thin" number will dictate the rest of my day. I then brush my teeth--I avoid the mirror--I walk back in and I weigh. I proceed to the shower, I attempt to be timely, then I--covered in cherry blossoms and pomegranates--step back over to my most faithful and destructive companion and--I weigh. 
 When I'm headed out the door (usually late for class), arms full of books, pockets full of technology and lipgloss options--I step back on the scale--and I weigh. 
 In the past 10 years, I have managed to memorize the calorie counts, fat percentages, grams of fiber, amount of carbohydrates, and the number of "points" in hundreds of foods. I am a human computer for nutritional information. 
 I know what my body should weigh when it is nude, when I am sporting "blingy" denim, when I am in Ariats or pumps, my Nike's or my Chacos. I know what I will weigh in my favorite blue pea coat. I know what I "should" weigh if I indulge in a plate of "illegal" mexican food. 
 It's odd isn't it? I am a sophomore in bible college and I have yet to even read the gospels from front to back. I cannot recite the Lord's prayer. I haven't prayed every day. I cannot promise that I will. I cannot promise that I will sit down tomorrow and do my quiet time. But I sadly, without a shadow of a doubt, can guarantee something to you. Each day, every day, for all my days, [as sure as I have been confined to these chains for the past 10 years]
                                                      I will weigh.

"Please forgive me god for the things I've done. 

 I could hide my problems; I could run.

But it was I who held the gun, and I am the setting sun,

 And I promise I will never, ever run."

I used to be a poet once.