the girl with no country
*
but i, being poor, have only my dreams; i have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly because you tread on my dreams. - w. b. yeats
*
if i write for you, do you think you could read it? savor the words carefully chosen just for your eyes, your ears. for i am personal and i am illegible, in all manners and parts i am how you choose to see me.
-
“There is silent and long-suffering sorrow to be met with among the peasantry. It withdraws into itself and is still. But there is a grief that breaks...”
-
The Relativity of Time
It seems at times
as if the galaxies have churned ten times over
as if months have given way to years, and years to...
-
-
-
Gold
I buried our love
in the backyard
with a hatchet—
it’s still there;
it’s grown into
a leafy tree
and each Spring,
buds blossom into
fruit and...
If you use the word
realistic
to describe my work,
it would sound to me like
a death sentence,
(the bell tolling on my existence and I climb
heavy wooden steps towards the scaffold).
No,
I don’t try for realism,
truth,
or ordinariness.
My work is not here
to entertain you -
it’s for me.
I will never be one of
those girls
who have lunches paid for
by strange handsome men
in small steamy cafes
miles away from home.
But in a poem,
I could be.
I won’t fall prey to the snickers
of a scoundrel, thoughts of a thief
but I, being a character
in this poem I write for myself,
could.
You may call me romantic
or larger than life-
Yes,
I’d rather like that
words can make my life larger
than it is
and that is why
we writers write.
