quirkytizzy: (Default)
It's hard to write poetry
when you've gotten in the habit
of thinking in paragraphs
instead of line breaks.

That's mostly it. I miss writing poetry. Used to write it all the time, even in the more stable parts of my life. Now? Haven't written a real poem in ages. A few years.

I should start snagging poetry exercises and trying them. Or piggy-backing off of Jesse's poetry. Or something. It's funny - I'm familiar enough with the art of writing in journal form to know that it's something to be done even when you don't feel like it. That writer's block isn't so much an occurrence as a natural state of mind, sunrise, sunset, do what must be done anyways. The lack of inspiration is completely inconsequential to the practice of writing.

I wonder if poetry is the same way.


Sep. 19th, 2015 11:35 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Pieces of poetry and prose of mine. Pieces I like. Pieces I'm proud of. Put them down and I can work on reworking them.

"I have needed to find you, but you have passed over, dusk to dust, and I stay sticky with skin....I am a compass without a needle, I am a map without a legend."

"San Francisco lines the entire West Coast today"

"And we are. (Mirrors a plenty but reflection none.)"

"I....the mind that is inescapable, discovering the nuances and sideroads that is myself. 30 years old and relearning, remapping, revisiting, and repaving. I, as in the portrait that I can't see and yet am all I can see."

"a blood-like magenta staining
teeth and wrist
like a liquid cherry blossom
dripping down to meet
the flush of lips
smooth and dark
as any plum."

"And this was the night I killed him, the sound of the wedding band I'd dropped onto the table ringing out like a shot, shattering torso, voice, and heart alike."

"But scar tissue proves a wound that has healed."

"Stories hung on the back of the garage wall like half-finished cabinets."

"Break the silence of soul and snow."

"It would take but a second to snap it and years to mend it, but then after so many years with broken things, how would you know the difference?"

"The blind and exceptional yearn
to climb, from Everest to coast.
All of this makes the worst
of the best."

I miss writing poetry.

I miss having the internet. I miss being able to immediately respond to your comments. I miss being able to read YOUR journals. I miss being able to be an active part of my support system. I miss knowing all of you as you know me, day by day.

I miss Cassie. I miss her voice and the way she laughs. I miss how utterly self-assured she is, even when it is in the throes of self-destruction. I miss the way I see decades of history, living history, when I look at her.

I miss Giles. I miss the way he would pad up to me as I was settling into bed. I miss the way his paws would gently knead my collarbone, the way he'd snuggle up to my neck, no matter how much bigger he'd gotten from the tiny kitten that fit into the hollow of my throat.

Still, the night ends well. I write. Jesse watches Buffy. The cats sprawl around us. The windows are flung open, as the evening air is cool and refreshing.

I miss things. I miss a lot of things. But tonight, even that is well enough. I have poetry. I have this. I have you.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I found this - a sestina I tried to write a few years ago. Must break up the line breaks into something more even.

And she obsessively collects poetry books
like some people collect hymnals
saying seventeen dollars isn't too much to spend
on one good poem.
(she says the same thing about food,
even as she never eats leftovers)

And in the fridge they mold, but not like her poems – those are never left over
she crafts the words into pages into chapters into book
devoted and tender and, she says poetry sustains like food
a spiritual song not unlike the masses singing hymnals
she compares song to poem
the masses going into debt with all of the sin they spend

And so I furrow my brow and try to understand, the spent
words of my own never as appetizing as what she tosses aside for leftovers
I come up with it, poem after poem after poem
pulling tears from stories and laughter from books
I sing my own broken song from my own broken hymnal
and choke on what rots trying to name each bite of each piece of food

of this nothing sustains like poetry, not the bread nor the honey of the food
that slides down this throat of this exhaustion that spends
like the unwashed churchgoers tossing money earned onto torn hymnals
consciences left aside like what she casts into the back end of the fridge for leftovers.
It molds like the shower does, the pages glued together from water condensation – these books
breaks the verses sung and written into smaller and smaller poems.

It's so alike, she says, religion and poetry, so enrapt with the poem
that she just wrote, sucking up the words like a starving man given food
after a six month long starvation of reading nothing but Esquire and no books
Expending energy but with no energy left to spend
on writing the spaces in between, the important left-overs
of soul and song and the bar to bar notes of self written hymnals.

And so I pick up her poetry and page through these hymnals
jealous and engaged and raging that I cannot write these poems
that flow so effortlessly out of her fingers, my poems are just leftovers
twinkies and snickers bars, sugar sweet instead of steak and a solid dinner, food
that I would trade all my money for if I just means I could spend
some time inside of her mind, her words, her books.

I shake my head and open my own book, thoroughly unimpressed with the praises in my hymnals.
I open my own coffers, offer as a sacrifice my own words to spend, staking my life on one good poem-
broken words and raging insecurity is the food, that fuels these poems, taking what's left and crafting mashed potato castles and motes of peas from these leftovers
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Beautiful, short poem. In an RPG book (Trinity - anyone remember that?), of all places.

"Slow Dance Kiev" -Ilya and the Tarvokiis

Do you have a knife?
Do you have a gun?

Do you have hope,
or a razor?

In the continental winter of
these slow eleven hours,

We return
to building
in wood.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I am thrilled to report the ever-shrinking-lungspace has returned to its usual, mostly expansive self. It must have been a pulled muscle. There's still some twinges, but it's good to know that pneumonia is not a concern. I ain't got no money for a doctor. I don't even have the money for one of those minute clinic things, which still cost 100 dollars just to get through the door, let ALONE the cost if there's testing to be done.

There is a low cost clinic in the area, but it's still 50 bucks and easily three weeks just to get in. America, oh America, just how much healthier would I be if ye weren't such a dick....

No, I'm not channeling Alan Ginsberg. Though to be honest, it wouldn't be such a bad thing if I were. I still need to write a poem. I'll probably attempt to rework/finish something older.

I don't think I've got it in me to do slam poetry. Maybe I do. I hope I do. That's my favorite poetry to do. The last decent slam poem came out of The Other Woman mess with David. That was three years ago and there's not been a comparable event since. Sometimes needing the strife to write is a pain in the ass.

Of course, I keep saying I'll finish or start a poem, and then the catboxes need scooped out, or a video game needs played, or I want to have sex, or whatever happens that gets in the way of putting words into obscure lines. I ALWAYS make time for the morning writing.

Poetry is harder to make time for.

It's of no matter. There are nails to paint. Chores to be done. School quizzes to be taken. And maybe, just maybe, a poem or two to fit in there.


Jan. 5th, 2015 06:11 am
quirkytizzy: (Default)
You were right on the money, Ben. A day-long nap (or most of the day spent laying in bed) prevented further snarky entries. Jesse came up with the cash to snag a couple packs of cigarettes, so I wasn't completely bereft.

I tried to write a poem yesterday. It's been over a year since I've written a real poem. Total no-go. Well, mostly a no-go. The words wouldn't settle. I even tried piggy-backing off of one of Jesse's poems, but didn't get much. (First line is his.)

"Being alone is like loving Death."
I dare not disappoint her.
Hell hath no fury like a scorned woman,
and Death-
is most certainly a woman.

I'll try again later today. I want to write a poem. I need to write a poem. I've got a hyyuge bunch of disconnected poem lines in my poetry tags, so I can run with that. Or limp. Or hobble. Or drop-kick in an agitated and mad muttering sort of way.


Jesse, in the throes of passion one night, asked me what he needed to do to drive me mad enough to write poetry about him. But...I'm too practical about that. In truth - and I can't remember if I told him this - he doesn't want me to write poetry about him. It's not flattering. It may be a way I immortalize people but it's never as flattering as they think it will be.

It's cliche, but my poetry comes from morbidity, rage, or sorrow. Occasionally contempt. I don't write love poetry. I rarely have. The few I've tried have come out strong but also stilted. I hate embodying such a worn out stereotype, but for me, the poems come from pain.

And I'm tired of love being about pain. Maybe I'll try, though. There were tons of new exercises that I picked up in my Creative Writing class a few years ago. Maybe combing over those will produce a new way of writing about a new thing.

I should tell Jesse that he has already been given one of the highest honors one can have in my life - an LJ tag. An LJ tag by name, no less. In the daily mess that is my mind, the trudge and drag that is the tedious shuffle of the hours, he has been handed an entire chapter of my writing.

One that will go on and on, no less. Even if we don't make it, his name will stay. It will forever be penned on this wall. His entrance into my life has been baptized, etched into word, stone, and heart alike.

His name underneath this entry, the one where a single click will lead to that which I feel about him, in blow-by-blow detail, is the surest poem I can offer.

I write everything down on Livejournal. Few people are named.

And he is named.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Undefined dates - somewhere in the year 1999 -

-This August Season -

deep beneath this cracked August sun.
my mouth feeds freely, bleeding again
with your ancient, familiar dust.

to understand omens
read in soaking tea leaves.
a bird's wings as dry and brittle to me
as they are pregnant and laden with magicks

for you.

my bones twist and curl in a screaming reach
for the magnetic patterns of stars - they have been
incensed by the marrow pared into primitive animal carvings.

The smoke waits for you.
Its voice wait for me.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
God, why can't I sleep? I know. I know why.

I wrote these some time ago, though the first one - the first one I finally finished tonight.

It's my attempts at slam poetry - harder poetry, louder poetry, poetry that's more like, well, rapping, but without the music and bitches and ho's.

Please listen? They aren't long. I think I just need to be heard right now. I think I just need the reassurance of being heard.

Also, do I really sound like that when I talk? Oi.

Nothing Like Me

Re-Emergence of A Manic Episode - Sept 2011 - Like This
quirkytizzy: (Default)
A poem from a DW friend. It helps.

Kaberett - http://kaberett.dreamwidth.org/131677.html


is not, after all, so very clear.
It flashes bright through fog, a beacon,
lighthouse, indistinguishable from sirens
there to lure you in.
It is not whole,
nor ever was unbroken:
but jagged peaks, the glassy shards, the crystal
call out to you. No words, of course:
but just a certain tightness, a very
that arises
as of a sideways step, from smog to cleaner air, then
into the dark, the mist
of your uncertain heart, that beats, that aches
for something more than fractured will-o'-wisps--
for something kinder, safer, less absurd
than plucking shattered fruit from out the dark,
and sitting, bent, with tweezers and with glue
and blood and gut and sinew, until your back might break
until beneath the light of dawn you find
the work complete, the shining whole beneath your hands
made new: and, cradled in its arms,
is only you.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Last night, seeing Molly particularly listless, I was absolutely sure she was dying. If at all possible, I'd prefer for her to die at home, in her sleep, surrounded by familiar things and familiar people. I messaged Pat and asked him for help with the vet bill for euthanasia should she experience pain, seizures, or other signs of distress. He said he would, which was reassuring.

I petted her gently and talked to her, telling her that she didn't have to be strong, that if she needed to move on from this life, I would understand. Cats, of course, can't understand our words, and so we say them for our own benefit. But she was soothed by my voice, by my hands softly petting her.

We left the heat on in the night, and made sure she was comfortable in her favorite place to lay in, with food and water and a litterbox nearby. I was in tears, but knew if it was time, it was time.

She is still alive this morning and eating and drinking with aplomb, so that is wonderful. I will still be keeping watch, though.

I'd written a poem about it last night.

-For Molly the Cat, Upon Her Last Days-

She rests, a tumbled tangle
Of fur, lank of years lived,
Fifteen years too short for a human,
And yet far shorter for household companions.
Rest, my dear little one. Rest.
Should your heart and breath escape
While we echo in sleep -

Know that one day, I, too
Will cross the rainbow bridge.
Rest little one.
And I will see you
among the ever green,
and ever gold,
grassy knolls.


I don't believe in heaven or in an afterlife. But if there is one, I hope it's one where I can see all my kitties that have passed on.

That'd be wonderful.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Found this in my algebra folder. So I must have written it just a couple of months ago.

-A Math Poem-

are disorderly children.
There are no fabrics,
in which to dress them in.
Stark lines, jutting
like exposed bone,
clean of human usage -
isolated, no context,
beyond standing as
a perverse goal post,
staked into dry earth,
that may have once,
been a burial ground,
But now stripped of anything,
but itself.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I have no idea when I wrote this. Found it in a folder of loose pages. But it's kind of fun.

- Untitled -

When the world is full of death
and madness

(I believe you really did mean to kill him.)

And I cannot make sense of the way
you chose to name your tears

(I only ask what stopped you.)

I stay late in the bizarre sky
and I say

(You would have killed him -
when the bullet was meant for your own head.)
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Exact date undefined. Late 2011. Loose page of poetry stuffed into a folder.

A pianist has fingers this nimble,
I think as I watch him
play across the neck of his Stratocaster.
Imagining ribs in place of struts,
and skin in place of string,
wondering if his nicotine stained hands
would leave muddy brown tracks
across my body.
I ask him over the snap and hush
of yet another cigarette
how long he's been smoking.
He smiles and shrugs off the Stratocaster
to show me the pockmarks
of several decades of smoke burns
on his guitar.
I have my answer.
I could always use a few more scars.

-------- Now )
quirkytizzy: (Default)
could be
a poet,
I said to my 12 year old self.
Not knowing
or having given myself permission
to reach any further than the boys
I crushed on
and the girls who always managed
to sit with those boys
instead of me.

I could be a poet!
I said to my 15 year old self.
And so I scrawled down words
unwieldy because I had just graduated
from crayon
to pencil.

I was a goth.
Goths write poetry.

And I gave myself permission to use words like "dark"
and "eternal torment"
things that wouldn't occur to me weren't original
until I got my hands
on the poetry of Poe.

I could be a poet,
I said to my 20 year old self


Imagery. Needs imagery. Flow. Yadda yadda yadda. Time for bed now.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Sometimes when I'm driving and everything hits slow motion....sometimes when I'm driving the lights stop becoming streaked blurs and instead float, as if independent of anything that could create them....sometimes when every muscle inside relaxes and I feel as if I have become the very power of combustion that moves the vehicle....sometimes when I'm driving and when everything's perfect I think -

"Dying....wouldn't it be lovely?"

And then I smile.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
One of my friends on FB annoyed me so much yesterday that I willingly got off the ride. I jumped in with another comment this morning but thought the better of it and deleted the comment. I don't want to get into it.

Other loans are coming due, so I've got to call them and square that away. The offices don't open for another hour and a half. Also annoying.

Molly the Cat has not been drinking as much water as we'd like. Took a tip from the internet and began filling her wet cat food with water. Mash up the food and water and BAM, she happily drinks it. Good trick to know.

Took Cassie to court yesterday. She has a million fines to pay off lest she be hauled off to jail. She looked good, sounded good. I am still just waiting to see what she does. I had this strange moment of complete fantasy seeing her dressed nicely talking to the judge.

I envisioned her on a stage, in front of a podium, receiving a diploma from a college. Her smiling and walking across the stage, graduated and grown. I was thinking about how PROUD of her I would be. And I nearly began to cry in the courtroom, wishing for that. I could see it so clearly.

It's unlikely to happen. But for a moment, it was powerful enough to move me.

I don't have anything else to say at the moment, so here's a poem I wrote back in April, staring at the "Die Hard" poster my friend in my gaming group has hung up.

Bruce Willis

Bruce Willis dies hard,
old habits dive bomb,
like resolutions by February 20th.
Skylines and skyscrapers,
looming as ever overwhelming.
If there were a dramatic exit scene
to be had, guns barking,
I would take it.
Light my name in the marque,
Movie goers paying millions,
To see every dodge,
I fling from death.

Life is not that exciting.

And so I settle for movie posters,
Bruce smirking at me from behind
the glossy sheen,
pistol cocked high,
an idol of what I wish
I could shove across.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Hey look it's 2:16! And I'm awake! I can't sleep! This is totally random! I have absolutely no reason to be up so late! Yay!

So I wrote a poem.


I'm a commitaphobe -
or at least
that's what my boyfriend tells me.

And I don't understand
these other 30 year olds
with wives and two kids
and a three bedroom home
jobs that last all day,
china dinner ware
that matches with a cute little gravy boat,
to be brought out
with every Thanksgiving.

I don't understand
and my 500 square foot studio
cats and no kids
jobs that come and go
like the wind,
and a house that looks more like a
teenager's bedroom
than any adult's
I've ever seen.

he's not ready
anymore than I am
no argument settles that
comfortably and I know
it'll come up again.

He's never been married.

And I by 27 had
one failed marriage,
one abortion,
two credit cards maxed out
on their personal debt
and almost three decades of learning
that love was just another word
for prison cell bars
wrapped in pretty ribbons-
designed to fool
the most well versed
and underhanded
stage magicians.

And that's not a lesson
I want to learn anymore than
it's a lesson
that he wants to live with.

And so I hold off.
And I wait.

And yes it took me
six months
to change my relationship status on Facebook.
What did you expect
after four months
of having just skated out of
a ten year relationship?
I just couldn't handle that line
saying "in a relationship"
anymore than I could handle
it saying "married."

I don't argue when
the word "commitaphobe" comes into
because it's usually me
who says it first.
I know what I am.
And I know where I stand.
I'll never lie
about that.

And I don't shrug off
the fear that you feel
when I use the word first-
as if it's another mile
that I put in between us.

But I'm not trying to build a wall.
I'm just trying
to be honest.

And if commitaphobe fits the bill
it fits.
So I'm a commitaphobe.
And I don't want to commit.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
-Words of Self-Comfort-

All things turn in kindness, though that kindness may be nothing more than the gentle shielding of your heart admist the storms of others. Know where your peace lies and become familiar with the paths that lead there. Do not fear the silence that resides in that place - it is the source of solidity in all beings. There will be times you alone will walk these roads. But do not let bitterness close off invitations of company from others.

Practice the art of self-expression. Learn the sound of your voice in calm and chaos. All of your human experience will be lived through you, spoken through you - trust in the forms you choose to communicate with. You will not always know if what you are saying is true. But you will learn to know if how you are saying it is true - and this is never to be discounted.

Even if things get worse before they get better, all things seek a natural balance. It is law and bends to all forces, regardless of the time it takes to regain equilibrium. Time is your greatest constant. Seek comfort in its continual march, as it means no heartache is so great as to still the clock's hand.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
but I do.

"Go placidly amid the noise and haste..."

Someone has set Max Erhmann's poem "Desiderata" to a chill, gorgeous beat. Even if things will get worse before they will get better, all things seek a natural balance. It is law and bends to all forces, regardless of the time it takes to regain equilibrium.


quirkytizzy: (Default)
Chopped up, half starts. Something to work with later. I don't have the words to finish even one of them. And the syntax and write up of the lines are godawful right now. But can't sleep until it's all out of my head, even though none of it is actually saying anything.


"Try this",
says Natalie Goldberg.
And I'm a writer
and dumb -
so I try it.


if sanity's a commodity -
then I am sincerely lacking in funds.
both savings and discretionary,
turns poetry into badly writ puns.


Everyone says you should look for the "meaning"
in poetry.
That turn of phrase that means a turn of mind
and phosphorus philosophy
turns into word.

But I've been writing poetry for 31 years -
and I am tired of metaphor.

I'm tired of thinking we have to ascribe meaning
to every half-inked image half-assed onto the page.
(William Carlos Williams was right.
Sometimes a pretty red wheelbarrow
is just a pretty red wheelbarrow.)

And I don't want to hear the descriptions
of the rooms your pain stalks you in - I
want to hear the words it outright speaks to you in.
Don't skirt around the memory that you're trying to turn pretty
for the sake of words artful and witty.

Just get in there and lay it open to the bloody bone.

Too many years of trying to shake down Shakespeare
makes us afraid of getting to the point,
as if we might not be poets
if we are direct.

But this is poetry.

And I know I'm asking too much when I'm asking for
literal translation from brain to page.
The very nature of this endeavor requires our deception

And if I'm not looking for pretty then
what the hell am I writing this for? (??shore it up, rhyme it, meter it??)


quirkytizzy: (Default)

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