Poem: To All The Shy Girls

This whole Tinder thing lately has really got me flustered. In case you were wondering, I never again heard from The Lad, even after bucking up and messaging him. Ah, c’est la vie. But still, the whole process of setting out, deliberately, with intentions admitted, to find someone romantically feels rather bizarre to me. You’re essentially just shooting in the dark, hoping that the right person for you will come into your orbit by the most unlikely, randomest of odds. Instead, I’d always imagined that one day I’d simply stumble into the right person, and he’d catch on pretty quickly that there was something between us, and we’d just figure out things from there.
But what people have kept telling me, all with nothing but affection for me and the best of intentions, is that love will never work like that. You have to put yourself out there, take risks, get outside your comfort zone. You have to do the work, or you’ll never find anyone. That’s why I need to give dating a try, even if it’s scary and uncomfortable for me.
But here’s the thing–I’m just not wired that way. I’ve always thought that it was because I’m just too shy, but at the same time, I’m not really actually that shy. It’s always strange to me, this weird state I get in when I imagine actually dating a guy. So I did some thinking, and when I finished thinking, I did some writing. And I have concluded that, with all due respect to anyone who prefers other methods, I think that I’m just going to wait until I find the guy who feels like he’s worth the risk.

To All The Shy Girls

I used to think
that I was shy
that the reason
I couldn’t meet a boy’s eye
was an excess of embarrassment

And when I got
my first kiss
I chattered nervously
against his lips
and the second time
I giggled
helpless

Then one year passed
and then two
where I dreamed of
realer kisses
more than just a few
presses of lips

But again I couldn’t
meet their eyes
without a sudden tide
of bashful, red-cheeked stammering
to their amusement

How come when I
felt a blow
a fluttering clench in my chest
at the way his lips quirked
or his hair would rest
just so
on his cheek
and it seemed as though
he might feel the same for me

I was always gripped with a rush of panic
fathoms, oceans, miles deep
I believed it could only be
this overwhelming
overbearing
over-awkwardness
in me

Yet lately
I have come to think
that I am not shy because
I don’t want to be seen
No, I shy away
from men who never seemed
good enough to look upon
all that I have dreamed

I do not fear I’ve nothing to give
I look away, embarrassed
for they should fear me instead
I laugh nervously
for them
because they don’t know just how
lucky they would be
to press their lips to mine
as I’m giggling

So if someone looks away
when you don’t
meet their gaze
and cannot divine the crackle
of power
in your stuttered lines
know you have managed
successfully
to hide your riches
from lesser beings

You are a goddess
hidden in plain sight
wait for the one
who looks on your downturned head
and can recognize
your might

 

Poem: Couch Potato

I haven’t posted any poetry on here in ages, so I decided to share one of my more recent efforts. In case you were wondering, this comes from the miserable experience of being an unemployed post-grad living with her parents. The job market sucks, you guys.

 

Couch Potato

I am organic
made of the earth
a tender young thing
still a little green on the vine

But like a budding bloom
plucked in spring
or a just ripening fruit
before true succulence

I have been cut off
pulled from the richness
of my nurturing soil
picked from strong, sheltering limbs

My growth suddenly arrested
on the verge of blossoming
clipped from my garden plot
and arranged in isolation

I am a brown root vegetable
dug from the ground
packaged with my fellows
and sent off with little ceremony

Now I sit at home
trying to recover from the shock
putting out tentative little shoots
but lacking the food for proper growth

Always stationary
a lump resting in the same spot
all wild eyes and dreams
but growing nowhere

I cannot shake the fear that
I am slowly decomposing into my couch

Poem: I Fall Short

I apologize, Readers, for my extended absence. I have been working on a special project that I am very much looking forward to sharing with you all, and it’s taken up much of my attention. I also have been endlessly, soul-crushingly job hunting. I believe I have now applied at thirteen or fourteen places, and only two have even bothered to respond in order to reject me. One of them was something of a dream job for me, and for once I was completely qualified for it, and they did not even take two full days to tell me they had no interest in me as a candidate. That job listing is still up, which almost seems worse, because it’s like even not knowing what kind of applicant they might end up getting is better than giving me an interview. It has been an incredibly disheartening effort.
So today, I am going to share with you an old poem that rather sums up my feelings lately. It’s so strange to me sometimes, to re-read some of my old poetry and remember what inspired me to write it, but then to realize how well it has come to apply to different things at a different time in my life. Apparently I was an insightful little punk haha.

I Fall Short

I stretch my hand
my fingers feel a phantom brush
a butterfly kiss on my skin
that isn’t quite there
again

I hear the wind sigh around me
just a little farther
and it tries to lift me up
granting me half-formed wings
but I always fall short
it seems

The wise trees nod their heads
wisely
their gnarled countenances unsurprised
their green leaves tsking in agreement
the whole copse swaying disappointed
a picture of bereavement

The river runs swiftly by
sighing rippling sighs
babbling and laughing over rocks
at me
playfully teasing my failure
with fluid hilarity

The emerald blades below
ripple with disapproval
tickling my feet of clay
so I will leave the ground
and finally
be on my way

They keep misunderstanding
like if I reached a little farther
jumped a little higher
worked a little harder
it would be easily in my grasp
nature is demanding
don’t quit

Yet the earth just doesn’t get
I can see the blue of the sky
but I will never feel it
my visions always exceed my range
I am tired of always leaping
for something that will never change

So I fall short
back to the earth
a hostile, unwilling host
to gaze up at the sky
a stunningly blue, eternal almost

Just a quick PS, I have created a tumblr page to post my writing on, so if you are on tumblr please go and follow my tumblr page!

Poem: All The Words I Haven’t Said

Hi again, Dear Readers.
My last post was all about things I’ve learned, and one thing I forgot to mention is that I think everyone should try and write a poem at least once. Once upon a time,  much like everyone else I knew in the sixth grade, I had only a fairly vague idea of what poetry was and thought it was pretty lame. Then we read some poetry in my English class, got an assignment to write our own poem, and I fell in love with an entire genre. So give it a try, you never know.
For today’s poem, we’re going a ways back, which is only appropriate because it’s “Throwback Thursday.” When I was a senior in high school, our final project in my AP English class was a poetry unit wherein we wrote different poems according to the guidelines our teacher gave us. I was introduced to a type of poem called a villanelle, which has very specific rules you have to follow in order for it to qualify (you can read about it here if you like). The most famous example of a villanelle is “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas, and if you’ve never read it DO IT NOW. A villanelle is one of the hardest types of poems I’ve ever had to write because the structure is so rigid, but it also grew to be a favorite of mine. Through a lot of effort and thought, I wrote my own villanelle, and it is still one of my favorites of any poem I have ever written. Hopefully you enjoy it too!

All The Words I Haven’t Said

 

All the words I haven’t said
are enough to fill a world of books;
I can only imagine where, if spoken, they might’ve led.

I know they’re an equal to all the words I’ve read
and all the ones I’ve spoken, or accomplished with a look,
all the words I haven’t said.

A wealth of wit and woe and warmth inside my head,
bound away in the shapes of words and gestures that never quite took;
I can only imagine where, if spoken, they might’ve led.

And I know the greatest source by which that speechless hoard was fed;
you dished out chances for my silence like an errant cook
made rich by all the words I haven’t said.

And all the hidden heart-shadows where I cowardly feared to tread
were a million words lost in silence like my king to a rook
and I can only imagine where, if spoken, they might’ve led.

Yes, the volume of my speechlessness is great, but in all those words’ stead
I wish I would’ve said the three most important ones, even if my voice shook.
Oh, all the words I haven’t said;
I can only imagine where, if spoken, they might’ve led.

Poem: How You Know

So I’m still feeling depressed and lost over my sweet baby Boo, and I don’t feel like trying to laugh and be funny. So I’m just going to throw an old poem your way that is appropriately angsty. Also, there is profanity, so proceed with caution.

How You Know

Is this what falling in love is like?
Joy distilled naturally to its purest form
The searing expansion of warmth
that makes your chest feel like it will imminently explode
Like you get when you finish a damn good book
A chronic contraction at the corners of your mouth
That leaves your lips twitching constantly
Especially when you stand there stupidly unaware of it
Is this what falling in love feels like?
The repetitive, horrifying plunge
Over and over and over and over and over and over
Where you go stumbling and plummeting off every cliff you find
Yet the laws of gravity and nature itself don’t seem to apply to him
And he goes strolling casually along right above
The heels over your head
So he is walking on water and can’t seem to do any wrong
Permanent enough to let you regain your feet
Oh god, is this what falling in unrequited love is like?
Eternally off-balance because
Something isn’t right inside your head
And you go tumbling into sporadic pitfalls
Of his eyes and his laugh and his voice and his hands
And the goddamn way his path is paved perfectly smooth and
He never falls into you
I’ve told myself yes and I’ve told myself no
And forced myself to let him go
But he’ll never just go
Is that how you know?
This isn’t a damn good book someone has already penned
There’s no definitive, answered end
But, oh god, I’m afraid that’s how you know

Poem: The Quandary

Illogical, irrational idiocy;
Incorrect, improbably indignant me.
Oh,  jealousy.
No claim to the fame of your name.
The defined lines, speckled freckles, sky eyes-
wandering free.
The laughing smile absorbs my whiles,
and I am struck by the luck
that it is something I see.
An hour of talk, coincidental walks,
kind assistance and mild inquiries.
Hope springs eternal,
oh, implausibly.
No right to fury or worry at the sight
of sweet words spoken to thee.
Stupid silly cupid melancholy,
imagining an arrow, straight and true and narrow,
in you buried,
when the bullseye starts in my heart
and ends alone at my extremities.
And yet,
and yet-
I cannot forget the way you smiled at me.