I want to write

something other than this boring academic article on writing instructor identity.

I want to use this phrase "emblematic representation" because it reminds me of that time that you got rid of your dining room table and replaced it with a photograph of a table from a magazine--all the items previously placed upon the table now resided, meticulously arranged exactly as they had been before, atop the photograph on the floor. I laughed at first, perhaps I even enjoyed the irreverent madness of the idea, but then you took it too far. Now the only "real" piece of furniture in the house is the bed. Everything else has been replaced with photographs. I sat on the photograph of the sofa that now occupied the bit of sunlit space beneath the bay window and thought "this is our love." The conclusion was stunning. I let out a long breath and laughed, and almost cried, in spite of myself. I knew it must be said out loud, "This is our love, baby, look at it. Our love has been reduced to this glossy emblematic representation of what we think love is supposed to be."

HD, teach me to hear the world in this image

Evadne

I first tasted under Apollo's lips,
love and love sweetness,
I, Evadne;
my hair is made of crisp violets
or hyacinth which the wind combs back
across some rock shelf;
I, Evadne,
was made of the god of light.

His hair was crisp to my mouth,
as the flower of the crocus,
across my cheek,
cool as the silver-cress
on Erotos bank;
between my chin and throat,
his mouth slipped over and over.

Still between my arm and shoulder,
I feel the brush of his hair,
and my hands keep the gold they took,
as they wandered over and over,
that great arm-full of yellow flowers.

~ Hilda Doolittle

The Big Empty

Because sometimes it's just like this.

This calls for some Maya Angelou

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

~ Maya Angelou

No idea, no reason

I have no idea why I like this song so much today,

 perhaps because none of my exes has ruined it for me.

Oh dear, I guess you do get to read some of my dirty little secrets here. Shh, don't tell anyone.

We're so optimistic when we fall in love

But what happens when love ends? Is the resulting pessimism functionally equal to the previous optimism?

Sometimes I think I most miss the music that I've lost; entire albums I can no longer listen to because of the memories they evoke.

The other day I found a CD I'd made for you. Its newfound presence was oppressive. I couldn't bear it. It splintered in my hand; the songs that reminded me of you embedded in my fingers.

Face Poem

Face Poem

for R. Armitage 
 

Abstract, telescopic, geography

Of impasse

wide, open, pale,
Distant projection of perfection,

Like the moon.

Blue eyes, flecked grey,

coruscate 

half-revealed secrets.

A heart hidden,

Laughs: scar, barely visible,

Recondite.

Nose like a Roman God,

Wry smile everyone names shyness.

I disagree.

You run your fingers through your hair,

With sublime audacity

I dream

About the moon.




*Inspired by Richard Armitage's face