Thursday, October 1, 2009

just an address

people like sylvia plath are
always talking to me all the

and e.e. cummings.
it's so annoying.

he told her she was beautiful
so i felt ugly afterwards and
wondered why had i always been
so soft?

then lydia came up to me and
said something about painting
a picture in your head and i
said thanks then she walked
away sweeping her bangs back.

there were all these people in
our house and there were all these
people at the cemetary too, the fog,
we lied on wet blankets and listened
to bon iver. who is also talking to
me all the time.

i am so small and fragile and
homely and i keep writing the
same poem over and over again.

they say i lack confidence and
it shows. it's always showing up
all the time. and i'm always
apologizing all the time.
i'm sorry.

i'm apologizing for something
misunderstood inside of me
because i only make sense to me.

what people nowadays don't know
is my adventurous side.

right now there are mason jars
with half an inch of cheap wine
making rings around the bottom.
hollyn is eating potatoes.
and jason is sketching imaginary portraits.
brittany, sticky paper mache fingers.
i'm looking up from my book thinking
about how safe and literary
everyone thinks i am.
sylvia plath talking to me all the time.

but it was j.m. barrie when i was lying
in the round, soft stones of the beach,
my feet in the mediterranean.

and it was kerouac all talking to me when
i showed up in oxford in the night, in the
rain, alone, with just an address on a bit
of paper.

and someone else entirely, maybe myself,
when i caught malaria in west africa,

or when i hitchhiked in switzerland,

or in boston when i got drunk at an irish
pub with my best friend coming home at 4am.

or when i slept in the brussels train station.

and i wonder why people think i'm not adventurous.

it's like painting a picture and sipping from
mason jars and writing things down and being open.
it's being dangerous and risky and happy and letting
things happen and somewhere i put on the dress and
crown of maternal things and locked doors and going
to bed early which are things that matter but not all
that matters to me.

because being hopeful and brave and happy are sometimes
the hardest parts of my days and sometimes the hardest
part is having sylvia plath always talking to me all
the time.

1 comment:

Lindsey said...

that was beautiful. the writers dilemma