here i am again
from ok to not-ok in
5
4
3
2
1
behind the PhD
under the Ann Taylor dress
the addict sleeps sometimes
but she is always here
and you know what
i actually fucking like her.
Annie Jadin, speakingvoiceless.wordpress.com
Untitled XIX
Fissures come from earthquakes
and it was an earth quaking
my earth trembling first
then undulating to his force.
Earth resists – that’s why it breaks –
and I said no [I said no]
until I stopped
because I was so very empty
from the last quake
and he was filling me.
I fissured with his taking
pale earth crumbling, splitting
red bands of hidden dirt
shaken free.
His waves moved through the earth
and then subsided, rumbling,
and I am left,
fissured.
Poem by Annie Jadin, speakingvoiceless.wordpress.com.
Untitled XVIII
The voice of the wind is nameless
here it rips tears through sagebrush
and its rush against rock is the sound
of fine sandpaper on soft wood
“shh-shushhhh” it whisper-roars
in long syllables cut
off abruptly at the end of the desert’s breath.
Poem by Annie Jadin, speakingvoiceless.wordpress.com.
Untitled XVII
I wore a sparkly skirt today.
A female colleague says she likes it,
says, “that’s how you get guys
because they notice your butt.”
I am silent.
Let me paint a scene:
a lecture hall, packed
with my department, 100 people,
and two legends in our field about to speak.
I wore a sparkly skirt today.
A female colleague likes it,
says, “that’s how you get guys
because they notice your butt.”
I am silent.
I am silent.
Poem by Annie Jadin, speakingvoiceless.wordpress.com.
Inspiration: Czeslaw Milosz
Rivers Grow Small
Rivers grow small. Cities grow small. And splendid gardens
show what we did not see there before: crippled leaves and dust.
When for the first time I swam across the lake
it seemed immense, had I gone there these days
it would have been a shaving bowl
between post-glacial rocks and junipers.
The forest near the village of Halina once was for me primeval,
smelling of the last but recently killed bear,
though a ploughed field was visible through the pines.
What was individual becomes a variety of a general pattern.
Consciousness even in my sleep changes primary colors.
The features of my face melt like a wax doll in the fire.
And who can consent to see in the mirror the mere face of man?
From New and Collected Poems (1931-2001) Harper Collins Publishers 2003.
Sevenling: Blue sweater
These are a blue sweater,
horn-rimmed glasses, forgotten
ink-smudged fingers.
She is bright,
rose petal soft, quivering
adjusting her shirt,
covering black traces of touch.
A Sevenling for today’s prompt on dVerse: http://dversepoets.com/2016/04/07/dverse-meeting-the-bar-the-sevenling-form/. Go check out the other contributions!
Poem by Annie Jadin, speakingvoiceless.wordpress.com.
Argot
I wish I knew the language of mountains.
What does it mean:
the pattern of pine – just so –
on a western slope,
the quick clack-clack of stone on stone
knocked loose as I labor
up a slope of scree?
Words are written in dry washes
threading from the heights,
dry now and inches deep with sand,
but roaring thick with snowmelt
in the spring.
Some, a lucky few,
know the language of their bones.
Tunneling deep, past topsoil, roots,
extracting cores and samples
in this age when science is worth more
than gold. A more sophisticated tongue
than miners used to use,
long gone but still peeling wooden signs
lean along overgrown paths, cautions
to their ghosts.
I tread lightly on the surface
despite butterfly wing effects of loose stone tumbling
downslope from my feet.
I cannot know this place,
yet I feel at home
with these unspeaking peaks,
the quick thunderstorms and direct rays
of a much closer sun,
the brush-crashings of bears and elk,
all we creatures who prefer
this land of rock-brown, sunburnt languages,
these articulately voiceless mountains.
Written for the “Summit in sight” prompt on dVerse today. Check it out: http://dversepoets.com/2016/03/29/poetics-summit-in-sight/.
Poem by Annie Jadin, speakingvoiceless.wordpress.com.
On Ghomeshi, Memory and Trauma
Have you ever had a moment when you suddenly realize that your memory of an event is not actually what happened?
A few years ago I was talking to someone about a pretty life-altering event that happened when I was 13. I’m not going to describe it in detail because it’s not wholly my story to tell, but I will say that it was traumatic and was something that completely upended my life. Anyway, this person that I was talking to was also present for this event; not only that, but they were already an adult at the time and had access to information that I didn’t.
As we were talking, it became clearer and clearer that my memories were not accurate – my broader understanding of the event was correct, but large chunks of what I remembered were not. Some of my memories were distortions based on a teenager’s misunderstanding…
View original post 758 more words
Inspiration: Czeslaw Milosz
A Frivolous Conversation
-My past is a stupid butterfly’s overseas voyage.
My future is a garden where a cook cuts the throat of a rooster.
What do I have, with all my pain and rebellion?
-Take a moment, just one, and when its fine shell,
Two joined palms, slowly opens
What do you see?
-A pearl, a second.
-Inside a second, a pearl, in that star saved from time,
What do you see when the wind of mutability ceases?
-The earth, the sky, and the sea, richly cargoed ships,
Spring mornings full of dew and faraway princedoms.
At marvels displayed in tranquil glory
I look and do not desire for I am content.
Published in King Popiel and Other Poems 1962.
Driving through Texas on the second day of the new year
Spanish moss hangs greybearded
and dripping in a Texas coastal rain
lending wisdom to live oaks
tired, not just their beards but even
branches sighing towards the earth.
A pale blue house gels through fog,
rain-blurred pixels crisping into
paint-peeling siding and faded white
window trim with a wraparound porch.
This porch needs a live oak chair
and greybeard wagging, somewhere nearby
echoes of laughter and children racing
through the wraparound. But the house
dissolves in mist as I am watching and a
pale blue warehouse runs beside the
highway, forward along the highway,
through the great stumps and smooth-planed
grass. There are no greybeards anymore.
Poem by Annie Jadin, speakingvoiceless.wordpress.com.
Speaking Voiceless 