making progress

The pan is dirty; stained and caked
in month old leftovers, the stench
recalling the stomach-aches and unsatiable
hunger. Before I can start, I scrub with Joy
lathered on a sponge that soaks and sucks it up,
never stopping to mind broken nails or bloody fingers
until everything is empty- clean.

Somewhere, there is a recipe, handwritten and hidden
in my mother's cookbook. Instead of searching,
I assemble my own ingredients. Flour, for thickness
(thick skin), durability. Bananas to take the ache
away, sugar so it's easy to swallow, yeast for rising
above you. One cup of chocolate chips
just because.

For ever, I watch it rise,
sitting in front of the oven,
chin in my hands, elbows on my knees.
End result- lopsided, with dents
and holes. But it smells like heaven.

Someday, I will get it just right
served on the good china
to even my greatest skeptics,
and their hushed criticism, murmurs
involving supected use of nutrisweet
will melt in their mouths.

This first loaf, though, is all for me
to eat alone on a warm front porch
straight from the hot pan, while staring
too hard into the sun- an over dose
of light, and daily bread.

-------------------------
Er. yeah. I haven't written a poem in months and this is rather awful, and I suspect it is even more awful to those of you who are constantly surrounded by amazing writing. I'm not sure I like it at all, though it seemed like a good idea at the time, and I'm also not sure that it will make sense to anyone who isn't me. But that's the point of workshop, right? take something awful and tear it up in the search for a shred of potential?

Right?

Help me.

Love,
Caroline

return of the angst poetry

as i was watching 'so you think you can dance' a judge commented on a choreographer. the judge said that not one step is made that is not from the soul. this choreographer has to be convicted of something in order to dance. and so that is my new mission for poetry. no more thought or mechanical process, just heart and conviction and soul. and maybe that doesn't have a place in the poetry world (i hope it does) and this is no means an example of such. i wish it were. but as i go on this journey, here is my first step:

Blood stained strings tightened
around the neck of a guitar
reveal my raw underbelly.

Some large toddler has snatched
the orb of my life and is shaking
it, demanding with anger

some meaning or amusement.
My precious china stammers
off of shelves and explodes.

Ceiling dust clogs my throat,
my tears. I tuck my knees and rawness
inside, a pathetic tactic

for protection. My cheek bruises,
ribs splinter, and fingers bleed as I
attempt to appease with song.


sometimes there just aren't words for what you mean, and i find that frustrating. it makes me want to read dictionaries (i call a character who reads dictionaries) and thesauruses so i can say exactly what i mean with the precise force and gut that it requires.

sometimes i wish writing was more physical. but that's the challenge, isn't it? thanks for the thoughts and patience. much love,

emilea

Sorrow
Ungodly Hour: The Fray

Time stained envelopes
Flour dusted hands
Thin socks, scarves
Light bags, heavy hearts.

The letters came and
were returned. Life in ink,
beauty in paper, people
in words. I miss them.

To do things, and fill cravings,
I bake: lemon pound cake,
brownies, batches of cookies.
They stale on the counter.

My clothing and spirit thin.
Wearing the uniform, following
routine, wears down my soles:
wears down my soul.

My suitcase sits empty,
future journals empty. The strings
of my heart are pulled tight,
stuffed with decaying futures.

Pretend you didn't know what this was kind of about. Assume it came out of my brain because i'm listening to a beautiful, sorrowful piece of mastery by the fray, and not because i'm anxious, or awaiting letters. : - )

BTW, i emailed the fantastic anna king, and she said that letters were to be mailed first week of april. so we can relax a bit, for now. : - )

emilea

her bag is not much heavier, i wish that i could carry her, but this our ungodly hour.

wait for the ekphrastic edit

It will come. But for now, poll in the sidebar. I want cash. haha. No, I do, but I really just want to win anyway, even if the prize wasn't cash. =)

masterclass

"must be a memory that takes place in a mode of transportation, playground, or grocery store." i think it will just be random. but i don't know for sure.

I had my elbow on the arm rest,
my shoulders turned to the window
so Mom wouldn't see.

Tears from the fight stained my cheeks
a cherry color. I saw the carcass
of my dreams strewn out on the battlefield,

bald and exposed. I had wrapped
my heart in chiffon-hope, and with
a simple switchblade, the layers fell off

like old leaves. I had staged my
proposition with care, first unrolling
a backdrop, then stringing together lights.

As I pulled the curtain back, she frowned,
asked if I was crazy. I heard a snap
and everything crashed.

My future-world was reduced to
sharp, blackened glass, splintered wood,
and a flicker.

As she pulled into the driveway,
I sat there in the sticky leather seat,
cracker wrappers at my feet,

wholly defeated.

why do i always write depressing things for my masterclasses? what? anyways. : - ) much love,
emilea

Poll in the side-bar...

*big scared eyes*

... help me?

love,
Caroline

psstt: workshop emilea's poem below.

another one

A morning of careless chatter,
Bright smiles, and knowing looks
Bring a twinge of lightness to the
Atmosphere.

A dream of striped air balloons
Billowing into the sky almost
Breaks the perception of an indifferent
Attitude.

An after thought:
Barely seeing each other would
Burden me. So perhaps your
Absence would be best.

         ...

Although:
Blundering through life
Befuddling you with rejection
Also seems rather absurd.


Do you see the pattern? i wanted to make fun of rhyming schemes...anyways. thoughts?

emilea