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Author Topic: poetry book  (Read 373 times)

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Offline Asharia

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poetry book
« on: April 04, 2018, 12:06:37 AM »
Tonight
I am engulfed by the black sky
where no star shines
no glowing moon curves around
the horizon
the void in me is still
no comfort in its emptiness

Tonight
I wish I could talk to you
bind my star to yours
put my void by yours--
find a heartbeat again.



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Offline Asharia

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Re: poetry book
« Reply #1 on: April 06, 2018, 02:40:24 AM »
It's National Poetry Month, and also the month of my birthday. I've noticed in recent years that I always get moody and morose around this time, probably because I keep getting older without feeling like I'm reaping any benefits from it. Getting older? Check. Wiser? No. Richer? Definitely not. Any dream achieved, just one, okay what about half a dream? Uhhh no. Sorry. Just older and more bitter than last year. Lately I've also had more time to myself to think, and I think it's driving me crazy. My head used to be my refuge, the one place where I could escape from the madness of the world. However now I hate spending time with myself. I'm overrated. Boring. Moody. Thoughts going round and round in circles, and often I have no one to talk to about it, so it keeps spinning like an endless laundry cycle. And I really need to hit stop and put the laundry out to dry.

So that's why I write poems. Sometimes they're imbued with the pieces of my soul that I hide from the world. Sometimes they mean nothing. Sometimes they're just words I need to write down so they'll stop spinning in my head. In any case, it costs nothing and I want to commemorate Poetry Month with something personal with full anonymity (because there's no way I'm posting my poems on Facebook). No. Better to exhume my body of work here, anonymously, where no one cares, where I don't have to wear the mask of someone who still cares. And of course, as a gift to myself I'm making myself write poetry as often as I can.

So. Happy National Poetry Month to everyone. Thanks for reading.






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Offline Asharia

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Re: poetry book
« Reply #2 on: April 17, 2018, 01:23:20 AM »
This poem was inspired by my dad. I used to try and make tasty dishes for my parents but as time passed, their tastes grew simpler due to health reasons but for my dad, I began to suspect he had other reasons. He would always choose the simplest dish and say it reminded him of his past. In time I realized that not only was he eating food, but he was also eating his memories. They were helping nourish him, or so my fanciful mind thought. Who really knows except for him. But it inspired me to write this.

Edit: Omg! I read through it and just realized I used "fierce" twice within three lines. Oh well, it's a first draft. Hehe





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Offline Asharia

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Re: poetry book
« Reply #3 on: April 17, 2018, 05:51:31 PM »
A very long time ago, I wrote this at work on the back of a discarded envelope. I wrote this after a long friendship ended. I had feelings for him but he didn't return them, so I told him I couldn't be friends anymore. But it didn't mean I stopped caring. The ripped up photos at the bottom were from our walk at the lakeside, where I took photos of him, of the lake, of the changing leaves. I think I ripped them up because I didn't want any evidence of a day where I was so happy. These remnants were buried in some corner of a desk drawer, and when I found them I found it hard to throw away the last pieces of what was such a happy time in my life.


Today he is married to someone else and they have a child together. I didn't know about all of that until just a few months ago. We hadn't talked in a long time. So when I saw his child, saw her big brown eyes and the tender way he held her, I was shocked. To his face I smiled and spoke some words--even now I don't remember what I said--but when they left, I had to take a private moment to myself. That night, I opened an old journal where I had chronicled all the poems I wrote during that time, during and after the end of the friendship, and I came upon this piece of envelope. When I read it again, my heart grew calm. Yes, I have always wished him well, even when it hurt too much to be around him. We filled each other's lives with friendship and meaning when we both needed it the most, and that's enough for me. I wished him well then, and I still wish him well now. There are no regrets. No anger. No sadness. Just gratefulness for falling in love with him, even though nothing came of it. I feel like that love I had prepared me for the next person, the next adventure. How can I express anything other than thankfulness? I was treated kindly, and my heart, even in its brokenness, was let down gently.


So, this poem is very special to me. It signifies an end to a beautiful friendship, but also the beginning of something else. A kind of evolution for me, I suppose, one where I open my heart and love someone else without being loved in return, and yet still end up whole.









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Offline Asharia

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Re: poetry book
« Reply #4 on: April 20, 2018, 01:27:58 PM »
It's a bit strange how memories work. Most of the time they don't even feel like memories, more like dreams that happened to me a long time ago. If I detach myself even further, I can almost believe that nothing happened and I only exist in a void by myself.

But when I write, it feels real. People and memories and experiences are real. And sometimes truth, memory, and dream all exist together at the same time in some kind of convoluted reality. It's hard to separate them, and maybe I don't want to try anymore. Life is just a dream, one that will pass all too soon.





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Offline Asharia

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Re: poetry book
« Reply #5 on: May 10, 2018, 07:34:11 PM »
A couple years ago, my heart was aching and slightly broken. In an attempt to patch it up, I tried writing a fictional story about it but had such a hard time with the beginning and the middle. So I started with the ending. Funnily enough, when I finished that part, I felt disinclined to finish the rest of the story. Maybe what I really wanted was just the ending anyway, the reassurance that everything would be okay in the end. I would heal, and the ache in my heart would someday diminish. If my brain reminded my heart that all things pass in time, my heart would wait patiently.


It worked... kinda.




Ending of Story


She walked past the area where there had only been a jagged hole in the earth last year. Back then, the dirt had been overturned, plant roots poking out like helpless strands reaching for the sky. But today there were patches of grass growing, bits of green covering the dark earth.


She remembered how she had felt a kinship to the hole last year, how the deep scar in the ground seemed to mirror her own emptiness and pain. Back then, she had imagined throwing herself into the hole, how the dirt would bury her body, trapping her in the earth. That might have been the only way to ease the ache.


A spot of white caught her eye and made her stop. There were flowers growing in the grass where the hole once was. She picked a flower and breathed in its delicate fragrance. Something soft and equally delicate unfurled in her chest. It happened so quietly that she had no name for it, nor did she pause to examine it. Clutching the flower in her hand, she turned back onto the path and continued home.



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Offline Asharia

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Re: poetry book
« Reply #6 on: June 07, 2018, 12:04:48 AM »

today
my heart is healed
it is thankful for you, to have walked your path
for a little while
it is full
it is loved
it is beach and bone,
dusk and sunrise
it is bright and sun and leaf and stone


my dearest, it will ache for you always


but know that I wish you a life full of love
I hope you have found someone who loves you deeply,
who holds your hand when you walk through the dark,
who is free to love you with all her heart.
Someone with sand in her hair
and stars in her eyes.
I wish you a full life,
a loved life,
a good life.
I wish you all this, and more.












(I still find myself searching for moments full of you.)



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Offline Asharia

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Re: poetry book
« Reply #7 on: June 15, 2018, 01:01:05 AM »
I lose the ability to
write poetry
                        when I am not sad

when words seem translucent
untreatable &
unremarkable

instead give me
                               soft earth in my hands
lovely lavender and pink impatiens
in front of the house
the sound of my mother's spade
as she tills the earth
while I sift the dirt

could a poem
ever
               be more than this?
could a word?
could the white page ever eclipse
the burning sun that
makes my flowers grow?



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