When I was three
the sun never shone on me
I only knew darkened nights
the sun’s gold wasted
Maybe it isn’t happy, just like me
Maybe I’m my own sun born of man and woman
I will shine and rise
glare heavily
so that they may see
they have not taken my joy.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and, by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub.
This eerie video features Billy Collins short poem ‘The Dead’.
Who doesn’t love the Nightmare Before Christmas movie just the way it is? Well, maybe Tim Burton’s original concept idea might change your mind. If anything it’s pretty cool to watch!
I used to drop my pocket money
into the rain grates by the road
taking them for piggy-banks–
that’s why it’s the sea
that owes me most
–Sunay Akin, Turkey
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
jenniferhecker.com
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
–W. H. Auden
Check out this cool art installation of edgy animated paintings by Ashley Wick!
My baby cries but I don’t answer when she calls.
Too lost in my thoughts to adhere to her wails, her needs. Her hunger feeds my sorrow as I contemplate every new day. I am not enough. These arms weren’t meant to cradle, to hold, they’ve barely molded the life I’ve wanted to live. How did I end up here? She continues to cry, pleading for me. Her hollering like knives as they dig into the skin on my back, reminding me of every night I spent on my back. I swim through those memories trying to pinpoint what I would’ve done differently.
My baby cries, but I don’t answer when she calls.
Darkness falls in between the spaces of her pudgy fingers as she flails. Wildly, she hurtles her wails for mommy into the air. I want to tend to those screams, but sit seems my thoughts consume most of my time. I cry to the night as if it might know that I don’t have the slightest idea of how to are for my child. Mother moon maybe you could take her because my arms aren’t strong enough to cradle, breasts aren’t experienced enough to nurse. My voice doesn’t know lullabys, or how to laugh with children. I feel a tinge of impatience, wearing thin. The hollering, so sharp in pitch, that its like a dagger dragged across my skin. This invisible umbilical thrown around the neck, so close, I feel I may choke. Is no one else listening? Too busy shouting that if I didn’t want a kid I shouldn’t have gotten pregnant then. Too busy with their slicing judgments, cutting into my womb. This baby deserves more than the broken spirit and resentment. The guilt and torment. The melancholy. What if she ends up just like her mother? Hunger feeds the need for urgency as I am stuck contemplating tomorrow. Her future, for which I am responsible.
Would she grow up happy? The worries, the apologies, the missed time, the ‘daddy’s not here because’s. I confide all these thoughts to you when my baby cries–
I thought I told you to stop crying–
is all I can manage to answer.
What will the world print
when I’m a famous dead and gone poet?
She liked blistex over lipgloss
dark chocolate and Ritz crackers
Brooklyn and Italy
dark poetry, like the confinements of a room
the stage
graffiti,
really cold spaces with lots of warm blankets
butter and mayo
converses.
She died a legend
that thrived in this world
a simple student with an open mic…poetry
humble
and to be honest,
always a tad bit hungry
The Poetry Corner 