Friday, December 20, 2013

Friday Original Poem

Yesterday's poem kind of ate me up inside when I read it settled on the couch in Gina's rented, Michigan house.  There are times when you feel open enough to receive a poem packed with that much truth, my moment on that soft couch was one.  The content was utterly relatable to me but the form was powerful too.  The repeated lines, separated by stanzas and building fury until finally, the two most telling lines join together to truly condemn the writer.

I wanted to play with it a bit and see if I could mimic the form to come up with my own version of self-help.  It's not nearly as good as the other (whose author I shamefully failed to acknowledge because I forgot to write her name down while flipping through Gina's poetry books.)



Stand in a slice of moon
The hum of an ice-maker your only companion
You became a mother, not a singer

Sticky peanut butter and sweet jam
The whir of a shower kicks on upstairs
Work the bread dough between your fingers

Slugging along the slick surface of your floor
Fat folds of skin wobble and linger
You became a mother, not a singer

Across the street your neighbor stabs the ground
Informs the world he is a right-winger
Work the bread dough between your fingers

At the nursery school you see the girl you wanted to be
Your mind’s eye a dead ringer, but,
You became a mother, not a singer

The oven will be hot soon
Roll your neck to loosen the ache
Work the bread dough between your fingers
You became a mother, not a singer

8 comments:

  1. So easy to focus on dreams gone by.

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    1. Sometimes, right? I am very lucky in who I did become.

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  2. It's hard to believe you so recently became a poet. It seems to come from you as natural as living. Brava!

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  3. I am so amazed by you, J! This is just awesome!

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    1. I love you, Gina. You know that you are the person who has inspired me towards even attempting poetry, right?

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