Three till Seven » Poetry

Fitting In

Sarah — Thu, 20 Oct 2005 00:17:54 +0000

I look so goddamn normal
That it ought to relax me
But I still have a wad of chicken wire that is
Bent into crooked cosines
Inside my stomach.

Determining my wrong is like
Playing Where’s Waldo with dust;
It pulled me from day-to-day’s cocoon
Into the dry crackle of
Exception’s heat.

Sunlight begets ray of sunlight
And I wither on the vine;
I still feel as nauseous
As a seat cushion borne
Of a Tilt-a-Whirl.

Really bad poetry

Sarah — Fri, 19 Nov 2004 18:30:56 +0000

These were written by me as parodies of so much cheesy poetry I see out there.

My Bloody Heart

The blood in my teacup
Is too thick to drink
Smash! Shatter! Tinkle!
Goes the cup as it breaks
Like the infinite, knife-like
Shards of my heart.

The Neverending Saga

Pick, pick, pick.
I pinch and I pull,
But it is all in vain.
It is to no avail;
My tuggings are futile!
…As is my life.
Woe is me,
The perpetual
Wedgie picker.

Death Omen

The suicidal ladybug
Dressed her finest in red and black
Cares only to dance and dance
Her spectral, ghostly dance
As she dashes her brains
Into the cold fluorescent light
And each hit screams an omen:
TURN OFF THIS FUCKING LAMP!

Weary Bones

My lover
Is a skeleton.
A bag of weary bones
Surrounded by nothing but air.
Air…and my own rotted flesh
As I hug him in a
Corrupt embrace
And drag him along into the
Despair that is my
Decomposed soul.

I Slipped in Munich

Sarah — Sun, 25 Jul 2004 18:37:38 +0000

I found Africa while you were away.
It was tucked into
The curve of his neck,
Right between hope and Texas,
Just beside my future and
Our parting.

I held China in the palm of
One day
While you were elsewhere,
Counting stones in the Andes and
Skipping rocks across
An ocean’s breadth.

And while we were apart,
I slipped in Munich.
He kissed me in Edinburgh.
The gait of
Our history
Hurries me on to Rome.

Self Importance

Sarah — Fri, 23 Jul 2004 00:58:48 +0000

And just how damn elite
Would you have to be?
If I got out my thesaurus and looked,
I wouldn’t find your name under
“Consequential.”

Sulphur

Sarah — Mon, 22 Dec 2003 00:57:06 +0000

This is sulphur
Coupled with blood and
Thicker things.
I should leave this town
Just pack up and
Take my insomnia somewhere else
Where the dreams that I can’t have
Can twist up into knots
In a better place than this.
Because even my hated bits
Deserve more of a garden
Than a swamp.

Notes

This is a very bitter poem in which I’m writing about my disgust with my current location, which at the time of original writing would have been high school. I didn’t have insomnia, however, so that part of the poem doesn’t reflect real life for me. I interpret this as the dreams being ‘hated bits’ of my life (though they actually aren’t) and, even though I can’t dream due to insomnia, I still would rather be in another place staying awake all night than in my current location in the poem. I describe that location as being akin to sulphur, blood, and thicker things, none of which are very pleasant.

Solitary

Sarah — Fri, 21 Nov 2003 00:55:26 +0000

Past my window,
Up the stairs,
Around the bend in the hall,
Pass five thousand faces
And none of them yours.
On my street, there’s
A man selling fruit
Out of a cart.
He gets new customers every day
But none of them
Know the weight of my heart these days
Like you do.
There’s wine on the counter
Drained spaghetti in a sieve
In the sink
But of all the millions outside my door,
I’m the only one here to eat.
And if it were you who passed by tomorrow,
Or you buying fruit today,
I wouldn’t–
Couldn’t!–
Believe my own eyes, and
I’d eat my dinner alone.

Notes

I got the idea for this when I was participating in a summer program where I was away from home for over a month, and I got very homesick. The poem starts out reflecting that initially, because we got a Family Day in the summer program on which our families could come and visit us, and I sat waiting for them to show up, watching other parents come up to see their kids before mine finally came. The rest of the poem is unrelated to my real life, and I picture it describing the life of some woman whose lover has been away for such a long time that even if he did show up again, she wouldn’t be able to believe it.

The Futility of Intimidation

Sarah — Sat, 26 Apr 2003 00:52:53 +0000

I should’ve left it alone
Like the rest of your dirty habits,
Like the rest of those
Picky things.

But a tempest couldn’t bring me to fear you!
I called it up, and now
I’ll call it out.
Let it face me, and decide how this is to go.

These changes in perspective
They’re brought on in reason,
Or fits of it, at least,
So we know such feelings are worthwhile.

Such ice could not bring me to fear you!
You, who are nothing to me,
But the leftovers of a wasted empire
That I dreamed one night in my

Insobriety.

Breaking Up

Sarah — Mon, 17 Feb 2003 00:51:51 +0000

Like I said,
Like we tried
While you supported and held holy
All the things required.
But I was the one to recognize,
As it always seems to go in my life,
That this wouldn’t work, this
Couldn’t work;
It usually doesn’t anyway…
Not with the bitter way
In which we held each other.
Not with the somber way
We looked into the other’s eyes.

Notes

I see this as being from the perspective of a girl who is going through a break-up and is sad about it, but at the same time she realizes it was unavoidable. The poem is saying that the couple in the relationship is just going through the motions, e.g. ‘While you supported and held holy / All the things required’, but that they don’t really feel anything.

Same Road

Sarah — Fri, 29 Nov 2002 00:31:35 +0000

I traveled the same road as you
And found it unpaved.
So I ask of you,
“What is the point of all this?”

And you answer (with your
Smart, all-knowing self-righteousness),
“I have been down
To see the sulky fires, and
I have thrown down all of
My barriers to this
Once predictable, once controllable
Lifetime.

“But it is all the same and
I’ve journeyed to places better.”

“Yet you still remain,” I said,
“In the same rut, the same passionate embrace
As you were in the last time
I dared call up your face.”

“Yes,” you said, “I know.
Nothing much changes here.
We all learn what—and how—to fear.
And I have seen the lot of you
In dances with the devil and
How I laughed at you for choosing such an
Easy way out!
You must learn to grieve and play the game the same way
As the rest of the students under these
Benevolent gods.”

The Next Soul

Sarah — Thu, 22 Nov 2001 00:24:51 +0000

Death goes by, not stealthily
(As we are of thinking and it is yet maintained)
But with an easy grace, and bold,
With human bodies avoiding its path unknowingly:
Dodging to the left or hither, just blaming it on
A few loose pebbles in the street.
And as it gains the door
(Either the neighbor’s or theirs or hers)
It doesn’t drape black on the ground,
Nor does it shake the soil and corrupt the worms’ movement,
But comes in like a couth stranger, smiling pleasantly,
And nodding at the flowered windowsill.
Taking hold with smooth hands the destined one,
It leads them off, back to their origin,
And waves goodbye to them as it heads out,
Back, searching for the next soul that is homeward bound.

Notes

This one is obviously about death, and takes the attitude that when we die, we return to where we came from, which by my beliefs is God. With the line, “Either the neighbor’s or theirs or hers,” with respect to where Death goes, this is remarking on the common thought that we ourselves aren’t going to die soon, that death is something that happens to other people, not us.