![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
A Few Poems from Thistles
For ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
14valentines. Today's theme is politics, and in this year, when we have the first female Presidential candidate ever to be taken seriously, I think we can all recognize the importance of this issue. Read the essay here.
I've been thinking about the characters about whom I write, and like many people interested in slash, my characters tend to be male. I do, however, have some poetry either about women or from my own (female) POV. So today I'm sharing poetry. It's not professional, but it's mine. :o)
At the Back of the Photo Album
My mother was ten
years old with copper hair
and danced on the lawn
with writing all over-
dark on her pale body-
lipstick she snuck from Grandma.
She wore a red bikini,
pretending she was Goldie Hawn.
Was that the year her mom
called in the family
and, when nobody came,
set fire to the turkey?
I’m glad she could play-
could pretend to think
that she'd someday escape
to beautiful downtown Burbank
Lillith
[a triolet]
Adam ruled all of creation
but his wife would not obey
his demands for copulation.
Adam ruled all of creation.
She refused the degradation
of submission to his way.
Adam ruled all of creation
but his wife would not obey.
Persistence of Memory:
Our Minds are Floppy Watches
They jumped.
For a faint, fleeting moment, they
flew. The roof of the shed had never
looked so high. With pillowcases clutched
tight, held overhead like small He-Man
parachutes, it seemed they might...
crash!
Hard.
No tears for them, only a pause to
regroup. The pillowcases were a bad
idea. Perhaps wings would work better. I
remember them plotting and planning:
mattresses on the ground below their
window, giant paper airplanes, big
enough to sit in.
They remember it was
all my idea.
Bovine Rhapsody
[a sestina]
I grew up in a country
town steeped in boring history
surrounded by cornfields and plots
of grazing land. A cow
could be happy, spend her days
peacefully. Kids were not so pleased
with farm manners. Please
and thank you are so ‘country’
and out-of-date. Modern day
life should be fun, not just history
and tradition and milking cows.
The young ones start to plot
escape from the farm. Plots
with crazy twists that pleased
them, like riding off on cows
to a faraway country
where no one knew their history
and they could live day by day.
But these were dreams of someday-
plans built from mystery plots
and adventures out of history
class. Mr. Trautman was pleased
they liked his tales of country
and local history. He hardly mentioned cows,
except in the Chicago Fire. Cows
are rarely pyros, but there are days
out there in farm country
when I’m sure they plot
rebellion. I know they’d be pleased
to end their long and servile history,
a painful, butchered history
surrounded by folks who eat and tip cows.
People don’t even say ‘please’
when they take your calf mere days
after you birth him. Your plot
of alfalfa is a cold and lonely country.
History gets lost out in the country,
so please take time out of your day
Andrew Lang Daydream
I wish I were a fairytale
youngest son – the one with
a name like Ivan the Silly –
setting out into the world
with my inheritance of a
magic ring or talking cat.
Luck and lovely maidens
(or their masculine equivalents)
would fall into my arms
with fame and riches.
But I cannot say I’ve met
an enchantress in the wood,
and Baba Yaga lives so far
away. And I’m the middle
daughter.
If you made it all the way through the post, thank you! I appreciate it.
14valentines. Today's theme is politics, and in this year, when we have the first female Presidential candidate ever to be taken seriously, I think we can all recognize the importance of this issue. Read the essay here. I've been thinking about the characters about whom I write, and like many people interested in slash, my characters tend to be male. I do, however, have some poetry either about women or from my own (female) POV. So today I'm sharing poetry. It's not professional, but it's mine. :o)
At the Back of the Photo Album
My mother was ten
years old with copper hair
and danced on the lawn
with writing all over-
dark on her pale body-
lipstick she snuck from Grandma.
She wore a red bikini,
pretending she was Goldie Hawn.
Was that the year her mom
called in the family
and, when nobody came,
set fire to the turkey?
I’m glad she could play-
could pretend to think
that she'd someday escape
to beautiful downtown Burbank
Lillith
[a triolet]
Adam ruled all of creation
but his wife would not obey
his demands for copulation.
Adam ruled all of creation.
She refused the degradation
of submission to his way.
Adam ruled all of creation
but his wife would not obey.
Persistence of Memory:
Our Minds are Floppy Watches
They jumped.
For a faint, fleeting moment, they
flew. The roof of the shed had never
looked so high. With pillowcases clutched
tight, held overhead like small He-Man
parachutes, it seemed they might...
crash!
Hard.
No tears for them, only a pause to
regroup. The pillowcases were a bad
idea. Perhaps wings would work better. I
remember them plotting and planning:
mattresses on the ground below their
window, giant paper airplanes, big
enough to sit in.
They remember it was
all my idea.
Bovine Rhapsody
[a sestina]
I grew up in a country
town steeped in boring history
surrounded by cornfields and plots
of grazing land. A cow
could be happy, spend her days
peacefully. Kids were not so pleased
with farm manners. Please
and thank you are so ‘country’
and out-of-date. Modern day
life should be fun, not just history
and tradition and milking cows.
The young ones start to plot
escape from the farm. Plots
with crazy twists that pleased
them, like riding off on cows
to a faraway country
where no one knew their history
and they could live day by day.
But these were dreams of someday-
plans built from mystery plots
and adventures out of history
class. Mr. Trautman was pleased
they liked his tales of country
and local history. He hardly mentioned cows,
except in the Chicago Fire. Cows
are rarely pyros, but there are days
out there in farm country
when I’m sure they plot
rebellion. I know they’d be pleased
to end their long and servile history,
a painful, butchered history
surrounded by folks who eat and tip cows.
People don’t even say ‘please’
when they take your calf mere days
after you birth him. Your plot
of alfalfa is a cold and lonely country.
History gets lost out in the country,
so please take time out of your day
Andrew Lang Daydream
I wish I were a fairytale
youngest son – the one with
a name like Ivan the Silly –
setting out into the world
with my inheritance of a
magic ring or talking cat.
Luck and lovely maidens
(or their masculine equivalents)
would fall into my arms
with fame and riches.
But I cannot say I’ve met
an enchantress in the wood,
and Baba Yaga lives so far
away. And I’m the middle
daughter.
If you made it all the way through the post, thank you! I appreciate it.
no subject
It's... possible that I may have tried to sing "Bovine Rhapsody" to the tune of Bohemian Rhapsody. The third stanza actually worked pretty well.
no subject
I am intensely amused that you sang Bovine Rhapsody. That's kind of awesome.