Composition Book
Posted by Cortney Charleston | Filed under Poetry, Print
I.
The reach of my composition book is flat,
fully extended before me like the
equator before the birth of Magellan.
I look into it and see nothing,
aside from white space, that is.
II.
The pages are blank of confessions
like a virgin’s heart to their
spouse the night of the honeymoon.
And like said virgin’s body,
they are so very inviting.
Inviting, the way a guitarist’s
forearms are to the sharp
wit of a needle, saying
make of me what I wish.
III.
I discover an urge to recreate the
world along two dimensions and
simplify things a bit. I know depth
need not be the literal to be reality.
IV.
I write my name inside of it,
a first act of self-correction.
V.
The ink bleeds a little bit,
as if it is rising
from the paper itself.
VI.
I impulsively listen to The Wind Cries Mary.
VII.
I realize that art and pain
have never been more
intimate than in a tattoo.
This is without doubt
something to aspire to.
VIII.
I write a poem about my lack
of composure affront the sharp
wit of a needle, sewing my fate.
IX.
I look into myself and see nothing,
aside from white space, that is.
X.
I look into my book,
and see two dimensions,
working as three.
I made it what I wished.
Writer’s Block
Posted by Ivy Sole | Filed under Poetry, Print
You say you are close to me. Prove it.
I tried once already, and I can only measure
proximity in fonts and the throwing of stones.
It seems the glass housing my thoughts
is too easily shattered at it’s own hand.
I broke your writer’s block.
whenever, wherever, whatever
You moved like ink.
I remained stationary,
waiting for a word, a mark, a stain,
a stinging tentacle, or perhaps, a slap.
Fingers testing my temple
so I prayed the pain away.
You wrote me a sonnet of solace
in the Braille of bruises.
whenever, wherever, whatever
It didn’t matter. Your story’s setting, that is.
I am your paper thin confidante.
Make a letter out of me, signed with
backhand typeface. Send the world out to see.
Me? I’m content with warning: you can
hear the canvas cries when his fingers paint.
whenever, wherever, whatever
Stay
Posted by Jillian Blackwell | Filed under Poetry, Print
“So, what is permanent?” you ask.
I curl my toes around the edge of your kitchen chair,
Duck my head between my up-drawn knees.
“Nothing”
I say.
We spend most of our time kissing
Our foreheads together
Eyelashes skimming skin
Fingers trailing over ribs
“It’s only been three days,”
you say.
We sat on your front porch in the night
Looking over the overgrown garden
Leaves of a small tree trembling in the quiet wind
Halogen light dividing your face into shadow and ocher
You kept drawing your chair closer to mine
And I kept pulling my knees into my chest.
“One day, I want to live in a house that has a porch that goes all the way around. Well, maybe not all the way around.
At least three sides.”
I said.
You pull your chair closer to mine.
You are framed by the yellow wall of the kitchen behind you.
Your knees make parentheses around me.
I turn my eyes away and press my cheek to my knee.
“Everything ends,”
I say.
We huddle in the pool of flowers that is your bedspread and hide from time.
Legs intertwined like hands
Hands intertwined like expectation and disappointment.
You brush my hair out of your eyes.
“Stay in Philadelphia”
you say.
Ode on Manic Pixie Dream Girls
Posted by Lauren Yates | Filed under '11 Spring: We Real Cool, Poetry, Print
I.
I’ve always had a thing for filmmakers.
From the time I was little, even my dreams had credits as long as I fell asleep “properly.”
I’d cover my eyes with one hand, and slowly turn the knob of the dimmer with the other.
My mom never understood why.
Sometimes, she’d flip the switch on the wall to “help me out.”
And I’d scream, “No, Mom! The colors!”
Orbs of glowing colors appeared on the insides of my eyelids.
I formed them into shapes. Most often, Jesus.
Like that optical illusion where you stare at the four dots, then close your eyes and stare at something bright, then Jesus’ face appears.
Also, ghosts.
I knew they were evil because they spelled out ‘Booooo’ in Comic Sans.
With Helvetica, they might’ve stood a chance.
But with this as my nightly routine, I certainly never did.
So, I’m a little strange.
I don’t like drawing attention to myself,
but don’t mind telling secrets to 600 of my closest friends.
Like how I often woke up home alone when I was little.
I feared everyone went to heaven without me.
I still fear being left behind, but I’d rather be right than happy.
II.
It is always brooding males who understand this.
Introspective loners who view life through a lens and write how things could be.
I’ve always admired the minds of men brave enough to create stories.
The type of men who only know conversation as character development.
The type of men who fall in love with Manic Pixie Dream Girls.
Manic—the A-side of self-loathing.
Pixie—delicate, yet supernatural.
Dream—Altered consciousness has never felt so real.
Girl—The only explicit thing about her.
She’ll ease your pain, tell you to be spontaneous,
to frolic through Ikea, to change your life with mediocre indie pop.
Through her quirks, you’ll become well-adjusted.
You’ll filter your troubles through her like she’s a pair of rose-colored glasses,
which makes sense because she’s always been a spectacle.
You’ll claim you can see through her, unaware that reflection is her pastime.
And past times love shifting shapes.
She’s as long as everything and as widespread as goodness,
but still there’s little depth.
She is a fantasy, who assigns herself your peace of mind,
but no one cares about her story.
She is easy to miss.
III.
I am easy to miss.
Even on Broad Street in a gold “Shakespeare is my homeboy” T-shirt
and a neon coral sweater.
I never said I was nondescript,
Just that you’ll aim for me, but never quite get me.
I am easy to miss.
Because somewhere in your mind, the idea of me will complete you.
You’ve scripted me as your foil, written me as what you’re not
instead of what I am.
I am not your Manic Pixie Dream Girl.
I have struggles of my own, and it’s not my job to charm away your fears.
It’s funny that you think of me as a character, but refuse to acknowledge my flaws.
Right now, you’re too wrapped up in your own
to see I’m queuing up the credits from the director’s chair,
and I intend to fall asleep properly.
