Sunday, August 15, 2010

And Now for Something Completely Different: A Poetic Prose Versus Hoes Offshoot







This blog is having an identity crisis. It can't make up its mind about whether it wants to be a narrative of adventures linked to a gimmick, a place for general musings, a public posting place for notes scrawled on napkins or a phlebotomist. Some days, it attempts to be all four. 

Tonight (read: this morning), inspired by the previous post's guest blog and Prose vs. Hoes/longform vs. poetry exhibition between the soon-to-be famous writer Hannah Miet and myself, I'm abandoning my general distain for my own poetry and tossing some up here. Because self-abuse is kind of sexy come 3:20AM. 

So here, for no apparent reason and with no relation to this blog other than the fact it was written to someone I've posted about in this space, is a poem I pulled from the vaults. 


UNSAID, AS YOU WERE ANGRILY CLEANING UP DINNER

I'm sorry I don't save words for you. I try to,
each morning, plug up and reserve something.
Mostly by day's end the best drain out.
The first of the day are barely worth speaking.
I croak them to baristas and doormen,
to women whose purses take up entire train seats;
sometimes, I practice on bosses.
Then "love" goes to my father, and "why" flies to my mother,
and expletives dart to tourists who halt mid-step
on the sidewalk. Loosed by noon,
phrases marked yours slide by. That joke.
That compliment. That piece of honesty.
They slip into the ears of others and I don't stop them.
Sometimes I pull a few to the side,
apples at the weigh station, perfect pearls for stringing,
but God, they age so quickly.
I wish they weren't so limp when handed over.
And of course the best ones--
the things I mean, things you need, the way I mean to say them--
struggle to survive in open air.
Written down on paper they seem trite. Which is best,
since I'd feather you in Post-It notes otherwise.
So read them in my face. Study the way I slip a finger in your palm
and trace avenues there.
Listen how I ask for nothing.
Let an egg, broken in a pan and poached in oil for you, speak.


Happy Sunday morning. 

8 comments:

Hannah Miet said...

This was warm in all the right ways. Cold in its familiarity in places: the first words croaked to baristas.

Polly, please keep writing poetry.

Randall said...

I'm really glad you did this.

m said...

Always loved this one.

Julene Horowitz said...

I think your blog can be all of the above, and probably should be. Trying to constrict your blog identity only works if you can force yourself to write one way consistently for years on end.

I, for one, would rather not see you turn into Jezebel.

This is beautiful. Maybe I'll post some of my poetry... someday.

samantha said...

I fucking love this. And every other post of yours. Thanks to Hannah I discovered you.

inflammatory writ said...

Now I can comment!

I heart you and this. <3

Meghan said...

Love this. The imagery of the broken egg, sizzling through the silent air created by two lovers who can't find the words: beautiful.

Dean said...

Miss,
I'll second Hannah's suggestion! I found you through Hannah by the way... and must apologize for not reading your site previously. I shall in the future. Might I also say that my Grandmother just recently passed away too...my condolences.

Kind Wishes,