Intro Poems

I lost a decent amount of writing to a computer crash a few months ago, but here's a few I was able to pull from old hardcopies of 3200 work:

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Providing for Each Other

It's when my dad sighs,
"Ah, shit," as he settles in to the couch,
that I realize we all feel the same way.

It's the look of bewilderment on my grandmother's
face, and a sort of fluttering of
hands over surfaces, like she's unsure of what
they're for anymore.

It's how my uncle walks
in to the room and when we make eye contact
he raises his eyebrows as if to say,
Oh, you too?

It's how her best friend rushes past
tear-streaked, but slows
when she sees my red eyes.
And we collide.

It's when my cousin calls
and I answer the phone to hear
her sobbing punctuate my own.

It's when I seek out my mom
and find her pondering the blank air in front
of her, as though something about it has suddenly
become her mission.

And it's when my little brother says,
to anyone who will listen,
"I'm sad," that I know
there is no other way to explain it.
We all feel the same way.

　
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A failed attempt at form poetry...:
　
Death and All Else Erupts as Flowers
There are days I open the door to find, sitting on my welcome mat, flowers.
Usually this gift consists of a modest bouquet—an eruption
of baby’s breath, white chrysanthemums, yellow roses. I never have to read
the card because, hopefully, only one person will have a natural
reason to send such an apology. The contrast
of the white and yellow is beautiful. I hope they won’t die.

It’s a pleasant achievement, this acquirement of flowers when no one has died—
an accomplishment to receive, upon accomplishment, a collection of flowers.
I grin when the stems stab my fingers; grin at the stark contrast
of receiving them now, upon the winning of a race or the winning of a baby, erupt
in grateful gibberish. I find it, upon these occasions, only natural
to feel embarrassment’s chiding prick tinge my skin an ugly red.

It’s not planning the service that gives me a swift kick—never reading
the obituary, or boxing belongings, but the receiving of flowers. It says, “Someone has      died.
And I know there exists a correct and natural
expectation that I send some gift, and so I send these flowers.”
Flowers that will gasp their own last breath in days and erupt
inwardly, suck selfishly at the little bit of life left surrounding them, like a sick and unexpected contest.

I love that on those special days there is no contrast
between myself and every other girl in the world. That I receive red
roses, a box of candy, a dinner. This sudden eruption
of overbearing love, of promises that this love will never die,
promises that come wrapped in foil or decorated with white flowers
make me feel that this receiving of a weed is natural.

Everyone tells me that this is a natural
part of the grieving process, this overabundance. They give no contrasting
reviews of the situation. Everyone says, “Just say thank you” while you grasp the      flowers—
the sixteenth handful you’ve received in twelve days and now my house is an overflow      of red
and yellow and white. I want to tell them, “Someone died—
and nothing will help. Please save my home from this floral-smelling eruption.”

It is when I pant and groan and shove all at once that I feel, at last, an eruption
of skin and bone and slime maneuver its way out in a natural
staging of life at its peak. I survived, and it survived, and at this moment, neither of us      have died.
It’s when they place that unfolded mass of cells in to my arms—I notice the contrast
of her untouched, pale skin against my own enflamed red—
it’s when they settle her in to that crook that I realize: For this, I have received flowers.
　
　
　
　
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On That Day, You Loved It

Wearing your bracelet—that
one you bought in Turkey—
I can feel like you’re

still here. I found it in
a clump of dust behind
your dresser, when cleaning

out your apartment. You
fought with fervor. You
haggled for this trinket.

It made no sound when I
scooped it into my palm;
the topaz and aqua

beads reflected no light.
But you’d said that day you
loved it. So I use it.

And the hat! The hat—the
one you wore that flew off
with each change in the breeze—

it was stuffed in a drawer
in your closet. Now the
brim is bent beyond help,

the shape sadly deformed,
and the twine that held the
shells to it is missing.

I needed to save that
hat from Goodwill because you
said that day you loved it.

And now I wear that hat
and that bracelet when I
sit in my room, alone.

The hat doesn’t quite fit,
you know, and the bracelet
gets caught on things sometimes.

But I hold these breaking
pieces clutched to my body
so I can feel like I’m not

losing myself to your
absence. Because you said,
on that day, you loved it.
______
Cosmo Girl

The bright purple cover stands out, with its pink
(coral, page 21 insistently corrects) headlines that recite
promises. Promises to make you:
A Better Kisser, A More Independent Woman. Trendy. Thin. Trite.

537* Ways to Shine for the Holidays! it says.
A star marks the word. Like an asterisk, it purrs:
I'm lying. No amount of examples will make you--
Pretty, perfect, desirable. Insert any fabulous adjective here. It lures

you in, but that's okay!
Because the eight-pointed spot of light shines blue;
It stands out on the page. It
can say whatever it wants to.

I turn the page. Paris Hilton greets me with that
come-hither glare in her eyes, the kind that no
amount of facial distortions will replicate on me.
I convince myself it's the lighting. It's all a show.

Words like: natural, honest, and real are
juxtaposed with ethereal, diets, and twenty-eight versions of hot.
I skip ahead and, so distracted by the smokey eyes, full lips,
and transparent waists, can't stand to gaze at the lot

of perfection they've gathered in their "real life" section.
And so I shy away from it, shoving the magazine to the side
before I read the article that says, "I fell apart when the cameras stopped rolling."
Yeah, how could you not?

But I feel no sympathy for those real girls.
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The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing
Found: In Writing Self-Help Books
 When finished reading this, you will have an in-depth knowledge of:
      Theme and Characters and Plot
      and Your Own Identity.

To be a writer one must:
      Name oneself a writer, then write (and keep writing).
      Ne’er employ “one” to elucidate thyself.
      Sentence construction and grammar…have an elementary grasp of;
      Write stuff.

To be a writer one’s theme must be:
      Political, Religious, Cultural. Or Universal.
      Man against Man; Man against himself; Man against society; Man against nature; Man
             against God; Man against Death; Man against…
             Or all about sex (except when it’s about sex).

While constructing characters one must remember:
      To introduce the character in a way that makes your reader feel or experience
            something.
     To have a protagonist, an antagonist, a conscience, an emotionalist, a realist,
           a dentist, a temptress, sumptuousness (you get the gist).
     If it’s a Christ character, include: crucified, of course, preferably wounded by the hands, the feet, the side, the head. Portrayed with arms outstretched and good with: children, loaves, fish, aphorisms and parables, water, wine, carpentry, rising on the third day, being last seen in the company of thieves, walking on water. And rather enjoys donkeys as a preferred method of  transportation.
      If it’s a woman, include: one part strong-willed attitude, one part vulnerability, a hefty handful of dedication to her career (for an artistic woman, substitute with a pinch of misunderstood existentialism and unrepresented talent). Stir in a sturdy spoonful of issues with her mother. Bake at 350 degrees so she always looks great in a skirt.
      If it’s a man, include: A defined chest. Pants.


While formulating plot one must:
     Trudge through exposition, utilize tension, practice revision, perfect one of two riveting
      resolutions: Protagonist wins. Or Protagonist loses (in:
             Man against Man, Man against himself, Man against society…)
      Obtain a beginning, a middle, an end. Toss some fancy stuff in between.
  
 To be a writer, one must:
      Experience the world. You only include what you know.
             Find a secluded spot and write.
      Get published.
             Never be read by anyone else.
      Type on a computer, or a type writer; write on paper, your hand, a napkin.
             Write in the dirt, with a stick.
      Desire to explore the following question:
             Was Bartleby right to prefer not to?