OYE MI POEMA !

I hate how we artists, so different from the majority, so insecure and yet sure of our own genius, feel the need for disclaimers before presenting a piece of their work.

Backstories however, those are sometimes necessary. This is the first poem I ever published, which somehow came into my head nearly complete, a rare and magical gift for any artist, especially one whose medium is words. It is also the first poem I ever published, my junior year at UConn in the notoriously hard to get into Long River Review. I didn't appreciate the value of this until I worked on the review senior year and watched thousands of poems dismissed, picked apart, and thrown aside until only 39 remained. It is still a bit hard for me to fathom why a couple of poets got more than one spot. Then I was angry, now I just wonder who they were blowing or how much less partying they were doing than me. When I got the letter this poem was published, it was the best feeling I have ever had.. And then of course my delusions of grandeur had me dreaming I was the next Allen Ginsberg, put on this earth to bring poetry away from it's ivory tower of acadamia and back to the masses. But then I remembered. The masses are unable to understand poetry, and that I have never been a fan of the masses. Then my lofty ego decided to submit work to the most exclusive of journals, The Paris Review, etc, got a few rejection letters and buried my head in shame. I need to put myself back out there.
So I'm planning on reading this at the Bohemia Room's Cunnilinguistics night July 23 at Santo on Lincoln Road...Hope I don't talk myself out of it. I find the more I embarass myself and my loved ones, the better my work is... It's scary when the best stories are the ones that might make your family disown you... I'm starting to realize I'll forgive myself much easier for that than for not putting out the work I was put here to do. I'm rusty now, but I can get back to where I was... Someone once said there's nothing worse than wasted talent.... and I'm not getting any younger...


Whew! You still with me?

Here goes, brutally honest 19 year old me:

Naughty Nudie

Walking into high schools
blurred orange morning
I glance down
surprised and ashamed
at my own bare breasts

I have never had that dream

I was born naked
a baby playing in summer sun
naked
shrinking and shrieking
from the confines
of bathing suits and sunscreen

I was the little girl
who told all the neighbors
what happened when
you pulled her Daddy's finger

Who forgot to wear underwear
to a cousins Bar Mitzvah
announcing it as
we pulled into temple
a place where even the hair on my head
should not be naked
my parents laughed at my inanity
the next few hours
I enjoyed the breeze

Naked has been my way
in every sense

On a tipsy adolescent night
two boys dared me
to run naked
from pond to pool
and back

At private school on Monday
I was the slut.

Reputation fails to erase the memory
of the feeling
night wind and bare skin
unencumbered movement
the thud of my entire body
and nothing more
as it met with the earth.

In a summer sundress it is easy
to be naked
even as I sit here now
I am still naked.

Some may wear cloaks
and masks
makeup and jewelry
to show the world
who they think it thinks
they should be.
That's fine with me.

I'll be naked.



Naughty Nudie

Oye Mi Poema Thursday

Next weds a group of local blogger chicas and I are hitting up Ingrid B's Bohemia Room spoken word event; Cunnilinguistics, A night of erotic poetry... Only problem is, the only finished poem I have that's slightly erotic that I haven't destroyed or lost I read last time I was there. I'm going to have to actually write a new poem. It's been almost a year I think... But going through my old stuff on my dino desktop I found this poem, which I wrote in Miami, a little over a year ago... And decided to share. I was inspired my Billy Collin's poem of the same name. He is such a great poet... I wonder if I can get some erotic poetry inspiration there? No, best keep it safe and look through my Adrienne Rich ;)

The Best Cigarette
by B.L.



There are many that I miss

Having flicked my last one over a balcony

One dark night, a firefly disappearing in the trees.

The obvious ones, of course;

After an evening joint, the double indulgence

As one fades to ash, two light up

And lean back, the end of a long

Exhale;

At the end of a greasy breakfast

The day waiting to begin

Blue-grey haze curling and dancing from the ashtray;

Or in a hot tub, resting an elbow on the edge

Holding the damp filter until it burns out.

It’s a strange dichotomy, these moments

of flame and relief.

The most pure memories are mornings

When the next line keeps appearing

Through the tangle onto my computer screen,

The endless Miami sun.

Newly downloaded music in the background

With it’s own beautiful surprises and familiarities.

I would grab for the pack without looking

Away, lighting up as I read my own

Words as if they were a letter

To myself, written

Long ago..

And it would be the exhale of breath

Left hand raised to hold it

As I lean back in the chair and

Smile at my own truth.

Then I would be my own sunshine

All bright energy as I returned to work

My thoughts like beams of light

Little rays whispering,

The catalyst of soul growth

All the poems that brought me

Here, came from somewhere

Warm.

That was the best cigarette.

Smiling at the monitor.

Every ounce of light within

Shining on these words.