Tonight at 12:14 I'm kicking myself because I have lost my needed sleep. The kids will jump victoriously on me at 6:15 but tonight I need to finish my grief. Not because of a deadline, but just because as minutes wind down I must go down to say goodnight. But I can't move pass to sleep. When my mom died, got sick she left my heart incomplete.
This is all we could do the doctors said and now it is finished... It wasn't finished.
Tomorrow it still won't be finished. Bruised broken bleeding tonight is only a band aid because I need to take a leave. Not forever, but just for now, for this. Finish a period of my life rocked with new opportunities, health challenges, and devastating loss. It's been a year since she ended up in a coma and I lost half of me, and from that I've not lost. I have a gained a confidence in my strength. This chapter is finished and I have won.
The pain is unfinished... I won't pretend it not to be.
My life is hard and so it will be. There is nothing easy, the port is still there. Surgeries will loom and husbands full of gloom. My life is unfinished and I don't know where it will go. The grief is incomplete but the hope is there that my finish may be sweet.
There is a sculpture
in a garden of emaciated pain.It is
built to make you feel (manufacture pain) in order to help you remember that
which occurred on these grounds.It
makes you wonder (can you hear those screams?) how the atrocities that
occurred, occurred.There is no
explanation or answers to be found (staring at a stationary sculpture that
never felt pain).The ghosts live
elsewhere, Bullenhauser (a school meant for learning) where twenty tiny souls
(hung to cover the agressors shame) hung.There is no sculpture there.No
one cares to look at children in emaciated pain.You stand there at Neuengamme (never
realizing the truth) at the emaciated adult, and call him hero.
When I was younger I worked with the USHF on Holocaust Remberance and would do dramatic interpretations of real survivors stories. I write and have been inspired so much by what has happened but I never really share my work because I feel it can’t match with what they went through but I share this because perhaps it’s the poem I’ve put the most heart into.
“I am what I am and I am US American I haven’t wanted to say it because if I did you’d take away the Puerto Rican but now I say go to hell I am what I am and you can’t take it away with all the words and sneers at your command…”
Probably my favorite poet is Rosario Morales’ “I Am What I Am,” did not just inspire me but changed my world. For the first time ever in my life I realized I was not the only white skinned mestizo born Puerto Rican Jew who loves the Queen’s English and the BBC. It was that astounding moment for me, who has always stood out and never really belonged to a group or a race now was not the only one in the universe.
It is not just an important piece for the whole (maybe three of us in existence) race of Hispanic Puerto Rican Jews with Christianity and Academia mixed in; but rather it is an important work for any women of mixed heritage. It is a bold and brassy non-apologetic look at those of us who shouldn’t be categorized and shouldn’t be expected to give up part of themselves to fit into another categorization. “I am what I am and I am US American I haven’t wanted to say it because if I did you’d take away the Puerto Rican but now I say go to hell I am what I am and you can’t take it away with all the words and sneers at your command…”
Even the form of the work is amazing. There are no periods and few breaks. There is a sense of continuity with each part of who she is as almost to say that if she were to end part of who she was with a sentence you the reader would categorize her as that and cut off other parts of her. It is one take it or leave it statement and the reader has to read it just as that.
The idea of “I am who I am” is in a direct relationship with the biblical reference of the Hebrew saying אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה, ehyeh ašer ehyeh. Often the English translation is I am who I am. Morales is not trying to state she is Moses in this poem but rather is both celebrating her Jewish heritage and more importantly stating her divine role God has given her. By token she is telling the reader to embrace who they are. In Hebrew teachings it is our divine right as humans to accept the unique individuality and roles God has given us. “Take me or leave me alone.” Is the only period in the piece and the ending to her statement, which is fitting.
In feminism where everyone categorizes themselves and others, there is not enough dialogue when it comes to uniting sisters under umbrellas rather than marking them as one thing as another. Is Chicana feminism only for Mexicans if we share many of the same stories and even the Chupacabra? That is what Morales is getting at through her piece. Women are complex beings and so is race, culture, nationality, sexual orientation, hobbies, and education. To fit into one category, what do we as women give up? We as women need to celebrate who we are and all that we are unapologetically.
In my life I’m not bold. I try to be bold but than I become very apologetic. I am scared to be who I am and I still don’t know how to embrace myself. I read her works a lot and in my academic career I’m trying to emulate her. I am trying to learn not to apologize for who I am. Not allow myself to be written off because I am a mom or I struggle with bad health. I am not at that point yet of total bravery where I can say “I am Who I am”, but one day I will be.
"I am what I am, I'm a mother and a wife. There I said it and now you will limit me. I'm skinny and often contagious, I have bruises because my iron is low and I can't clot worth shit. I didn't ask to be this way no less than Magneto asked to be a mutant. But fuck you, I'm still here and I'm still worth something."
Popcorn in hand you sit there waiting in the luminously
covered tent until the air turns sinister and the lights betray your eyes-
booming voice announces the Heavens have above an angel of darkness hovers in a
straight jacket circling spinning desperately clinging past redemption into a
bright desperation of spotlights burning shut eyeballs the freak show has begun
you are clenching tightly to your seat
upside down
as water covers so as not to fall into the tank you struggle
desperately clinging past chains that lock your equilibrium into confusion
circling spinning clutching desperately clinging towards murky redemption
unattainable for but the lost key mocking you as the crowd holds their breath
hoping for death to tell their friends about as they clutch their iPhones
delightfully praying for demise
you gasp
emerging from inferno water gasping you bobble through
perdition sinking into netherworld circling spinning desperately clinging to
the key of hope upon the archangels robe to grasp a permanent freedom you
emerge the victor triumphing over the smell of popcorn and M&M’s carried
out like a king by scantily clad assistants only to be brought to the table to
be
When first studying poetry nothing seemed more ridiculous than the concept of "Prose Poetry". It's like turducken, it didn't feel natural. Yet, this is a technique that I've come to embrace most commonly in my own personal poetry. The concept of prose poetry is simple. According the Academy of Poetry, "While it lacks the line breaks associated with poetry, the prose poem maintains a poetic quality, often utilizing techniques common to poetry, such as fragmentation, compression, repetition, and rhyme." In other words the prose poem still has the same internal structure that traditional poetry has and relies primarily upon emotions or imagery in order to invent its heart.
Is it really poetry? Yes. Is it really prose? Yes. That is what makes the artwork so interesting. Take for example You have to be always drunk by Charles Baudelaire.
That's all there is to it--it's the
only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks
your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually
drunk.
But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be
drunk.
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of
a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again,
drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave,
the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything
that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is
singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and
wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you:"It is time to be
drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be
continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.
This poem has a clear structure of changing from light hearted to the "turn" into something deeper. It speaks clearly like a poem with out any doubt.
On the other hand take Edgar Alan Poe's "The Tell Tale Heart" in the last couple of paragraphs:
No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!"
Again you can see the spirit of a poem but this time it is an overtly prose piece. Yet when one compares the structures the following elements seen in Baudelaire's piece such as: repetition, turn, and imagery proving both prose can be poetry and poetry can be prose. By this one might say perhaps this is the ideal of all writing. That which can convey a feeling and tell a story all at once in vivid imagery is the most divine art of all.
Audre Lorde is a theorist and poet who I keep running into. I love her work because it is so artistically rich. Also I love how she is both an artist and theorist. Recently I was reading “Sister/Outsider” who was one of the leading Feminist/Queer Theorist and artists who helped affect modern outlooks today.Her essay, Poetry is not a Luxury completely floored me to the point of tears. Ever since I was a child art has been the uniting force to keep my feet firmly on the ground despite the trauma I have through.
There is a misconception that Literary Theory has no purpose is in the form and technique of both poetry and literature but that is not the case.Lorde has taught me about the symbiotic relationship of both.
The knowledge of fear can help make us free.
for the embattled there is no place
that cannot be
home nor is.
As women we are taught to hide those dreams.To be realistic and focus on 401k’s and paying off our student loans before we have to take them out for our own children.There isn’t a place for art in this world to flourish within our souls.Even in academia where we are supposed to be focused on art we are bogged down by trainings and grades.
“That distillation of experience from which true poetry springs births thought as dream births concept, as feeling births idea, as knowledge births (precedes) understanding.”As I get older my dreams have changed.I have faced life and death, birthed humans, survived abuse, survived loss, and got ducks.It is through these changes for good and bad that art has helped me survive.That my writing has become visceral and real.My dreams are more pure and personal.It is through this art that my understanding of my place in the universe has come.My art has brought me new dreams and most importantly peace.Nothing scares me any longer.I have my voice and I know who I am in position to this world.
“As women we must embrace this within ourselves.All of us must find our own art.What is the poetry of your soul?Each of us must find time to dream, to write, to express, and to live our poetry.For each of us as women, there is a dark place within, where hidden and growing our true spirit rises, “beautiful/ and tough as chestnut/ stanchions against (y) our nightmare of weakness/” ** and of impotence."
Poetry has struggled to find wide spread appeal in our generation and a lot of the reason for this is that people don’t see the point any more. In the 18th and 19th centuries for example poetry was our smart phones. It is where people came to express emotion through the art. Sensuality, love, faith, nature, etc were found between the pages of the greatest artists of their day. Now we must make art relevant in our technological world. People need to understand, poetry is not an option but rather a freedom of expression that cannot be found on Netflix. Source: Lorde, Audre (2012-01-04). Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches (Crossing Press Feminist Series)
A lady is always kind. A lady is always refined and never
curses. A lady is always dressed for her
best. Standards, I’m always falling
short of. More time in the corner will be
required. The finishing teacher would
tell me “no elbows on the table and make
sure you are always using the right fork.”
Cross your legs at the ankle and always say please and thank you. The bruises are large but never to be talked
of. A proper lady understands that
private matters are private and does not lower herself to gossip. “Rachel please don’t do a cartwheel in a
skirt” I say. She smiles defiantly and continues
her flips with Cinderella smiling from her anus. A lady never should say butt. But night comes and I must smile as he comes
home. I’m always falling short of his
standards. A lady should never question
her husband. A lady should never
dream. A lady must wear the diamonds he
bought her with a cheerful heart remembering who she is and the boundaries she
must keep.
Focus on Technique:Poetry as a Form of Racial Expression
As a young child I felt so alone.My father a white Jewish redneck and my
mother a Puerto Rican Catholic gave me no place to really belong.In college I found my place in poetry.I started with Pedro Pietri’s “Puerto Rican
Obituary” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XCD0IsZ4HLIand Laviera’s land mark poem AmerRican which
expounded on the purpose of being both American and still maintainingyour Boriqua presence.
Rocking people’s world when it comes to poetry and race does
not only affect the minority but also those who are not affected by race.For example W.E.B DuBois, “Souls of Black
Folk” was critically panned in day and so was his career but now looking on the
civil rights movement his work was both inspiring and game changing.
Another groundbreaking and notable artist is our Gloria Anazuldua.Many people think of her as strictly a
theorist of queer/latino/women’s theory.When students are asked to read “Borderlands/La Frontera” we focus on
the theory and forget that the heart of her work is the poetry that is written
both in her native tongue of Spanish and English.It is the heart of why she became a
theorist.She wanted people to
understand what truly was the heart of what the poetry was.
Through teaching students how to live in their race seeking
their own unique voice and still embracing and seeking other racial poetry will
lead to greater understanding.It will
open eyes and help those seeking answers in our society towards racial
understanding.
(I love farce. I still remember the "Animaniacs"and "Married with Children" and their farce of "Sunset Boulevard", later as an adult seeing the original film I thought those farces were the most brilliant ever. The same can be said about "The Simpsons" and their farce of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven". Of all the artists Poe remains one of my truest favorites and since seeing "The Simpsons" version I always want to find a way to farce it and so here it is!)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore —
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a purring,
As of some one gently purring, purring at my kitchen door.
“’Tis some stray,” I muttered, “puring at my kitchen door —
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Meow —
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Meow —
Scratching here for evermore.
And the yummy, sad, uncertain rustling of each dish bowl
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some stray entreating entrance at my kitchen door —
Some late stray entreating entrance at my kitchen door; —
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came purring,
And so faintly you came purring, purring at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” — here I opened wide the door; ——
Catnip there and nothing more.
Deep into that catnip peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no human ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Meow?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Meow!” —
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a purring somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window cat bed;
Let me see, then, what creature is, and this purring explore —
Let my heart be still a moment and this purring explore;—
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a pitter and patter,
In there stepped a stately Feline of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my kitchen counter —
Perched upon a kitchen counter —
Perched, and sat, and puked on the floor.
Then this ebony cat beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy furr be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no soothing,
Ghastly grim and ancient kitten wandering from the Nightly shore —
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Kitty “Feed me more.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly cat to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with cat puking upon his kitchen floor —
Cat or beast upon the granite counter above his kitchen floor,
With such name as “ Feed me more.”
But the kitten, sitting lonely on the dirty counter, spoke only
That one phrase, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a limb did he purr —
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other cats have begged before —
On the morrow he will leave me, as my kittens have left before.”
Then the Kitty said “Feed me more.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and purr
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his purring one burden bore —
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Feed — feed me more’.”
But the Kitten still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of feline and counters and floor;
Then, upon the granite counters, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous cat of yore —
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous cat of yore
Meant in purring “Feed me rmore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the feline whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat a petting, with my hand at ease petting
On the feline’s fitting furr that the kitchen-light gloated o’er,
But whose felines-filthy lining with the kitchen-light gloating o’er,
She shall purr, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, my allergies grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tile floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Meow;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Meow!”
Quoth the Kitten “Feed me more.”
“Bad Kitty!” said I, “thing of evil! — bad kitty still, if cat or devil! —
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted —
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore —
Is there — is there balm of cat nip? — tell me — tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Kitten “Feed me more.”
“Bad Kitty!” said I, “thing of evil! — bad kitty still, if cat or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore —
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Meow —
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Meow.”
Quoth the Kitten “Feed me more.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, cat or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting —
“Get thee back into the kennel and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black furr as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the puking on my floor!
Take thy paws from out my heart, and take thy puke from off my floor!”
Quoth the Kitten “Feed me more.”
And the Kitten, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the crappy counter filled with crap just puking on my floor;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the kitchen-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted — Damn it, I’ll feed him ever more!
