Last week was insane. I was way overscheduled and it led to poor sleep, extra stress and emotional hangovers. I knew that my reward for getting through last week was working more intensely on my poems.
My high school creative writing teacher is the voice in my head, even to this day. She was the one who taught me that writing is really about re-writing, about editing and word choice and the like. I am including two poems in this post. They are the two poems I'm submitting to the contest.
The first poem is on the third draft. I am hoping to get to the tenth draft before Saturday (when the poems are due). The second poem is going to be forged in a wine press of limited time. It's just the first draft.
My plan is to re-post the poems when I submit them. Then, for all the geeks out there, they can see the evolution of my work. (I'm positive I can count on my one hand the people that want to do that.)
In any case, Here they are.
Words
by Susan Carbajal
Words sprout me gossamer wings,
Erupt
Me into the sky. Silvery and translucent over my back,
Crisp air sweeps my breath.
My fingers brush
Clouds, wispy and damp on my fingertips. Sun blazes, searing
Through my closed eyelids.
Words plummet me to Earth,
Anchor
Me to the sand, chains
Around my neck. Nails break off as I claw, choking
On fear, failure. I vomit loss
Of opportunity, of love, bile
Burns the tears from my eyes, agony washes
Over my face. Mistakes reverberate
Between my ears, ugly and hollow like rotted logs.
Words quiver my lover’s skin,
Arrows
To his heart, anticipation waking desire.
My lips brush his ear, words breeze over,
Willowy promises reaching down his spine.
Words drip from my chin, red
As I crouch over my victims’
Spoils.
Tearing flesh, words work jagged teeth
Across felled friends.
A forest lies in my wake, decay sweet
I lift my nose, spit derision, move
Toward the horizon.
Words soothe, a calming balm
On wounds
Hidden
Under sarcasm, quick wit. My heart strains
As infection festers
away from prying eyes.
away from prying eyes.
Silent, my heart slows it’s beat, crushed
under the weight
Of words.
The second poem I would like to dedicate to my dad. He is absolutely my #1 fan, my biggest cheerleader and the person voted most likely to cry when he reads this. I love you, daddy. You mean the world to me and I am grateful that you are so full of love for my babies.
Growing Up
by Susan Carbajal
She was a difficult child. Teachers called her
Sensitive, scheduled conferences.
Suicide almost took her life. He watched her, helpless,
His heart throbbing in pain where she had pierced it.
Growing up was difficult
For her.
To watch.
Awkward, she struggled to fly
Away to new friends, new
Opportunities.
She left for college, potential swelling
In front of her, fear awash in her wake.
His hair grayed as she fought the demon
Alcohol, almost lost
Everything.
His heart dried up, empty
From hope lost through small leaks.
Small slivers burrowed back in
As she clawed up
From the mire,
From the destruction
She had wielded over herself.
Years passed and his heart grew
Back, softened
By new potential, spring
After things lie dead and dormant.
Pregnant
With hope
With the first grandchild,
he feared
That his heart had reached capacity.
In the hospital room he rounded
The bed, laid eyes on the mewling
New
Helpless
Form next to her.
A thousand beams, birthed
From the seeds of hope dropped
On fertile soil,
Tear at his heart, spill out
Onto cheeks wrinkled
From laughter
From worry.
His grandson is beautiful, his eyes declare,
The best of everyone contained in a new
Skein, supple and pliable.
His daughter in tears, he reflects that growing up
Has agreed with her. Sensitive has moved
From liability to asset.
Demons have been conquered, opportunity
Stretches
Into the horizon
Into the heart of his new grandson.
I feel like poetry is akin to sculptors working in clay, marble, etc. The artists say that the sculpture is there and it's just their job to chip away at all the parts that don't belong. I feel like it's the same way with poems. It's all there, I just have to make sure there aren't words getting in the way.
And now the worst part of writing and (eek!) putting it on the interwebs. I have to sit and wait, my heart pounding, to see what people think about it. (Because obviously I don't know what to think about it unless other people tell me. That's not entirely true but I am very suggestible.)
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