ninanevermore

Last of all, I am posting the kind of poem I am loath to admit that I write. It's a poem about writing poems. I don't think they are a good idea. But this one is kind of fun, to me at least. It's tongue in cheek. It's a poem about how the creative process doesn't work if I am distracted or everything around me is not conductive to it.

( Shortbread For The Muse )

I've always hated that poets sic poems on the public that nobody can relate to unless they walked in the poet's own shoes. It seems - I don't know - self indulgent.

That's exactly the type of poem I'm posting here. Maybe I'm hoping that I describe the situation well enough that you can imagine wearing the shoes the narrative describes. More likely, I'm just being a self-indulgent poet. What other kind is there?

A few post back I wrote about how I sometimes wake up with a low glucose level and the effect this has on Jeff if it happens too often (that is, it scares the piss out of him). I don't write about my diabetes too much; living with it is a routine thing for me and there's not much to write about. I wrote this poem after a particularly annoying episode that made me late for work one day. Jeff wasn't home, so I dealt with it myself. In the first draft of this poem, I didn't say what it was about, so I added a reference to the insulin to give the reader a hint. I'm hoping that reference makes the whole thing less self indulgent. Probably not.

I wrote this poem in a fit of frustration. I had to get a doctor's note explaining to my personnel department how this sort of thing could make me late if and when it happened, and doing so made me feel freakish and vulnerable. When you have a difference, a legal disability, passing for normal is a big deal. Alas, it's not always possible.

FYI, a severe hypoglycemic episode feels like being very intoxicated and incoherent, but with a rush of adrenaline on top. I imagine it's like drinking a large bottle of Jim Beam through a funnel and then snorting a few lines of cocain to compliment it. I've never done either of these things, but it's as close as I can get to an analogy.


( Waking Up Low )

Since the last one wasn't very fun, I'll post one that is.

This is about my mother and her use of curse words. For a poem about swearing, there aren't very many swear words in this poem. Just one, and it's mild. The rest are alluded to but not said. My mom was funny about swearing, and this is about the one four letter word that she used.

( My mother's clean potty mouth )

I only post poems on the weekends when I think that everyone is off living their lives and not hanging around on LJ, so they will bother fewer people. Look, I warned you, so you can avoid this one by not clicking on the cut.

This is one of the few pieces of mine that has actually been published, though it was back when I was in college and probably less than 100 people read that publication. Still, it's one of my favorite things that I've written.

When I wrote this I was trying to imagine what it would be like to be one of the women who had stolen my boyfriends and what she would think of my pathetic blubbering if she heard it. I figured she wouldn't be very sympathetic, but that there must be a certain rush and feeling of power to be the one who winds up the winner in that game. I wrote this from that viewpoint - as I imagined it, at least.

( That Bitch Venus )

It's been awhile since I posted one. I went to my open mic last night and read for the first time in ages, despite the light crowd. My only stipulation is that I have to see at least one unfamiliar face if I'm going to read, and there was one woman there that I didn't know, so I put my name on the list.

( Poet Laureate of Nowhere in Particular )

One of the things I'm known for when I read poetry is that it's not all serious and doom and gloom. Poetry, after all, is about life, and life can be pretty funny. I tell jokes between poems (so half my act is poetry and the rest is stand-up comedy).

This poem is one I wrote about reaching my 30's and it not being what I thought it would be, and me not being who I thought I would be either. On the surface, it's not deep, but I think I hit on some deeper issues; they are just disguised by the tongue in cheek delivery.

( Look back in Angst )

I think I write poetry because I want to tell stories, but I'm too lazy to write a book.

This one, like the poem from last Saturday, is a true story. This time it is about my mother-in-law's first cousin, Janie. I heard the last part first, shortly before Janie died a few years ago. Then, last May my mother in law told us about the day her aunt brought Janie home as a baby. It occurred to me that this was too good of a story not to write down.

The people in this poem are Northwestern Louisiana people. My husband's aunt in the beginning of this poem went by both her first and middle name, in that fine Southern tradition. You will see her name, Exie Mae, and want to pronounce it as two words; that would be wrong. Her family pronounced it "Examay." I think the poem flows smoother when it is pronounced that way.

For the record, when I met her Janie was a fun-loving grandmother who loved riding Harleys and speaking her mind. The closing line of the poem is a direct quote from her. If you had gotten the chance to meet her yourself, you probably would have liked her.

Here is her story.

( Homecomings )

But sometimes I do like to post it. I know most people hate poetry, and with good reason. ( My feeling won't be hurt if you skip this; no one hates poetry more than I do. )

I've been surrounded by a lot of grieving people of late. Since Grief and I are old acquaintances, if not exactly friends, I've written my share on the subject.

Grief is not a single emotion, it's a whole package of experiences. Until you've been through it, reached out to touch a person and only touched an empty spot where that person used to be, there is no explaining it.

This is an old piece that I was reworking today. I like it better now, it's more polished than the version I found in a notebook this afternoon. It's about the aspect of grief that is frustration.

( Warning: Hack Alert )