The Freedom Song of the Jigsaw Girl

I was feeling the need to write today. So I headed over to napowrimo to check out today's prompt. Turns out it was one that struck a cord. :) I liked the etheree format so much I decided to write another one. So here's my first poem in celebration of National Poetry Month.

Forgetting

Drift
away
memory.
Stop haunting me.
Why is it that I
can forget where I last
set my keys or a needed
word? The location of my car
eludes me. But you, you, are right there.
Always. Let go. Free me from your embrace.

Written for poetree Weekly Challenge #1. Note to judge: this poem is not eligible to win since author is a comm admin. Concrit eagerly sought.

They chopped down the lazy tree last Friday.
Its long low limbs so wide and inviting
no longer offer shelter to Sunday picnickers
and afternoon nappers. Gone is the shady
respite dog walkers and joggers enjoyed.
The quiet spot for a summer read;
the nesting place for children;
my wise old friend, my leaning tree,
my lazy tree, nevermore.
Your remains paved over;
an asphalt scar admonishes us--
return to productivity
no further laziness will be tolerated.
Creators, talkers, readers, walkers
players and singers no longer welcome
unless you fit into the machine,
color only between these lines.
Lazy dreamers, questing thinkers,
tilting at windmills, nevermore.

ETA: Fixed/cleaned up punctuation.

Print swirls across blank
page, energy and knowledge
seep out as you type;

eyes glaze over. Yes, zombie
brief eats your brains as you type.

So this is the last of the old poems that I found. It was written in the fall of 2002, making it just shy of ten years old. This one is even darker than the others, having been written during a time when I was just starting to realize the depths of my anger (at my life/circumstances, etc). I was a semester away from graduating with my Bachelor's degree and had begun plans to flee the area and my family there. That close to leaving, I was realizing just how caged I felt. There was so much that I felt I couldn't say for fear of the consequences. This poem grew out of those frustrations. And so I present to you, "Silently Screaming."

Silently Screaming

Your verbal ejaculate washes around me, over me,
tinted with red anger and black fear. Body frozen, my
mind stumbles, clinging to any thoughts that flit by.
My mouth opens to spill passion
words back at you. Words throttled by some
sliver of self that still wishes to wrap its arms around you.
Crescent marked palms sweat; eyes shine too brightly.
And I stand silently screaming
amidst a stream of words that bruise me, bleed me.
Passions spent, your footsteps echo down the street.
And I am left bleeding invisibly, wondering
if I will always be silently screaming.

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.