Archive for the ‘Poems, my own’ Category
I know I’ve been absent for a while. I expect I’ll write here again, get my mojo workin’. I’m not going to try to do it though, at least that’s not a plan for now. When I think of things to write, or more rarely, when I draft something, it seems inconsequential to me.
This is a happy occasion. I submitted some poems in 2013 and heard from the editor of Literary Mama in August 2014. Usually, one gets a response much sooner, so I had forgotten I’d even submitted to the journal. I am thrilled that they accepted my poem.
It’s good to have an excuse to post. I’m here. I’m still here.
My second publishing credit in an online arts journal, up today at qarrtsiluni.com
It’s been a while since I’ve put up a poem. As usual, it’s pretty rough. I like a lot about it and I think I can make it work.
I’m almost done with my manuscript, but struggling to make a couple of poems tighter. AND I HATE writing cover letters. Oh, help!
Vinegar and Sugar
(the German word for please is bitte)
In my mother’s brain,
the area responsible for taste
with the area responsible
She does not ask me for “Vinegar sugar soup, bitte”
But when I make lentils
she slyly opens the pantry door
(as if her desire to have a secret makes her invisible),
takes out the bottle of white vinegar,
and pours it into the soup
Mom, it already has vinegar in it
I like a lot, she says
She moves on to sneak the sugar bowl from the cupboard
and dances teaspoon after teaspoon
into her vinegar soup
All my Oma really wanted to eat
when she reached her 90s
She stashed it in drawers
and behind books,
wrapped it in cloth and kerchiefs
in her little room
where they put her
with her little window
high up on the hill
at the top of the small
German town where she lived
most of her life
and died her only death
Now my mother
wants only sweet and sour
that she hates soup
and soup with beans
and that all they had to eat during the war
and her father’s rabbits and rooster
sour or sweet,
who am I to stop her, bitte?
I know a lot of families who have only daughters, my household included.
Was a time we had two female cats, one female dog.
We got a a fish, one of those Siamese fighting fish, a betta. I would joke with Hubby that that was the only male companion in the house for him. Not much personality or ability to interact, that betta. Still, one needs allies.
Not much today, my usual mental musings. Is this a poem? It’s a bit silly, I know. I now see all of my repetitions, the words and images I love to use over and over. Not gonna censor myself right now. Not yet.
Just as I strongly dislike blogs and websites with white words on a black background (only forgivable on erotic content sites or sites run by folks under 21), I also HATE censorship. If I apply this to my writing, it backfires a bit because changing habits requires saying no to them. It’s not censorship, but discipline I need. Like I said before not yet. Let me be as free as a betta.
All We Have; What We Are To You
The estrogen pulses through us,
through the house
We ring with progesterone
the house rings with us
softens the ligaments
loosens the ishia, ilia, pubis
Milk concentrates and pours
My man is surrounded
Resistance is futile