The Freedom Song of the Jigsaw Girl

Not sure quite yet what I think of this one. It may get some more tweaking later. As always concrit is welcome and appreciated.

Tag

meta-tagging seems so new
but we've been doing it for millennia
objects around us collecting
associations, walls absorbing memories
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This poem was spurred into being yesterday evening when I got home from dinner. My water had gone out (again, and is now fixed, again, hopefully will stay that way), so I went into the village for dinner at the local tavern. I've been eating there pretty regularly since I started Lyme treatment and most of them are used to my meat and veggie only orders. My waitress wasn't one I'd had that often (though she was very sweet and as attentive as she could be considering they were slammed and only had one server working). She kindly asked if I wanted desert (which is her job after all), and I said "No thank, I'm not allowed sweets." Her response was "well at least it will save your teeth." I made the non-committal, "yeah, I suppose" sort of nod and headed home. This then insisted on being written. It came out much longer than I expected. Not entirely sure if I like it or not, it's a bit more poetry slam style than I tend to write (or at least feels that way to me). Constructive criticism is welcome.

( trigger warning: dental issues abound, might want to skip this if you are dentist phobic )

In response to this prompt at napowrimo.

Obsession

a dog with a bone
hide it, bury it, protect it
lose it, find it, show it off
gnaw it, grind it, worry it
until there is nothing left
a dog with a bone

finch offered a one card draw prompt over on napowrimo a few days ago. The card I received was "The Emperor." On a side note this was an interesting card to receive as it also came up in a recent reading I did for myself. I reviewed some of the interpretations and illustrations of this card and then set out to write a poem on the card. I'm not 100% certain how I feel about this poem, and would very much welcome constructive criticism.

Ruling Bodies

He likes a well ordered world,
clear structure and definition
without question; he has risen to the top,
become the highest authority.
Ordered vision his guide, he now seeks to guide us.
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April is National Poetry Month. I've been having fun playing with jjhunter and formulating haikai. I've also been working on a longer bit of blank verse. I'm not 100% happy with it, but have decided to post it anyway. I would be curious to hear what people think. So without further ado, I present "Word Ownership."



I.

Words: small units of language.
Tiny tools, multifaceted and complex
Strung together, used to concentrate the abstract.
Concentration allows manipulation.

Words have an accepted general meaning-
Amorphous and fluid, affected by time and culture.

Like all tools words have only
The morality given through use.
Vocal scalpels may heal or hurt
Shaped by speaker’s intent and
Listener’s understanding.

II.

You spit the word fat like it leaves a bad taste.
I free the word of venom and spite and endeavor to
Wear my size with grace. I am who I am;
I reclaim the word rather than spit in your face.

You sneer as you call me a geek or a nerd.
I grin and say it with pride.
This is who I am and I’m proud of that fact.
It is you who I pity inside.

So many words to label me, box me and
Cut me down; I will not be quantified.

I own the words I speak,
I own the words I hear.

Say what you will, I’ll hear it as I choose.

I was cleaning out my archived digital files the other day and found some of my poetry and other creative writing projects from college. I took creative writing in the spring of 2001, and it was a very memorable semester for several reasons. One was that I was incredibly ill that academic year due to the failure of my gallbladder. Another was my poetry creative writing teacher. I no longer remember her name, but her words made a lasting impression. She was a visiting professor, a published poet, and one of the most critical teachers I have ever had. She had me and many others damn near in tears after classes, and I despised her at the time. In retrospect I have to admit that my poetry improved ten-fold because of her critiques. I pushed myself to write something she couldn't tear apart, and it made me think of poetry in a different way. I can't say I like her approach, and I think that there are ways to provide constructive criticism without being so adamantly cruel. I will always be proud of the fact that my final poem was written well enough that the only thing she could say was "This is a finished poem. Well Done." Of course her comment to me after class was "Why weren't the rest of your poems that good." Apparently she had some difficulty in understanding just what "learning process" meant.

I am also proud of the fact that all of the poems I wrote that semester, and a few written after, were published in my college's arts magazine, and later on my college e-portfolio, which has long since been absorbed into the internet. I kept digital copies of the works though, and it was fun to read back over them. In the spirit of walking down memory lane, I am going to post those old poems here starting with the one that, for me, resonates most with the season.

In December of 1989 my maternal grandmother lost her long battle with cancer. In 2001 I wrote the following poem as a textual portrait of her. My mother wasn't too pleased with it because she felt it didn't paint the most flattering picture, and perhaps it isn't. It is a real reflection of my memories; each word lovingly, painstaking chosen to paint a portrait of the frail woman with an underlying core of strength and ferocity that I will never forget. So in loving memory of my Grandma Chris, I present: The Matriarch.

The Matriarch

She sits enthroned
In a chair of cheap cold tin
With a cover of blue speckled vinyl.
A matching table
Of fake gray-white marble with
Blue filigree along its edge is bowed
Before her. She is robed in faded night
Gown once ornate with vivid flowers.
A steel halo of stale cigarette smoke blends
With a bluish silver helmet of curled hair.
A paper hand rests
Next to a can of diet coke.
Brown eyes set in among
Deep crow’s feet avidly investigate
The pages of the romance before her.

So the title of my journal comes from a poem I wrote about five or so years ago. Other than sharing it with friends, I've never published it. I think it's high time I did. So here it is:

The Freedom Song of the Jigsaw Girl

I am the Jigsaw girl,
shattered and scattered
across the prison of my mentality.

Pieces of me glitter and glare
in the light leaking from the cracks.

The first thing I find is my feet.
Silly skips snap into place with
sneaky slinks to form my toes.
The jaunty jumps of a tomboy bounce
together with the sensuous saunter
of a young woman forming the arch.
The heel and ankle are formed by angry stomps,
frightened fleeing, and delighted dances.

The next thing I find is my hands.
Balled bitter fists mesh with gentle fingers
that form magical creations with crayons
and later charcoal. Crescent scarred palms
lock with excited fluttering digits, and my hands are formed.

Legs, arms, head, and torso fall into place. But
some bits cower in the safest shadowy hiding spots.
New found feet dart through my old prison,
freshly created hands coax and entice. Slowly
the rest of the pieces are placed.


Excited streams of words bubble
from my rosebud mouth. Songs, screams, shouts,
wonders, and whispers wander out as a voice finds
freedom; another puzzle piece snapped into the whole.

Finally patchwork hands hold the final piece. Tattered
heart is smoothed into the remaining gap.
My old mentality disintegrates.
I salsa with the sunbeams; savor my sovereignty.

I am the jigsaw girl,
pieced and patched together.
Stronger than I was before,
I dance across my universe.