a Poem in Response to Poetry Class

This is a rough draft. My professor wanted me to be more "nitty gritty" with my poetry and wanted them to be darker and more shocking; I wrote this as a way of disagreeing with this evaluation and also to give her what she wanted :) Enjoy!

Formaldehyde

The white page is carven

with pools and hesitant streams of

my lifeblood that pumps from

the desecration of my aortic valves.

Curious eyes of poetry professors glint with excitement;

the biology major opening the stiff cat

to find the prize of preserved kittens inside.

This paper is the formaldehyde 

Preserving my diction

That becomes

The stiffened legs of your specimen.

Your pen seeks out my story,

of a new mother raised in a crate

that just wanted the peace

of kittens at her teats.

Your pen scratches at my story,

Drawing blood,

And says that I should dwell in that cage

and kittens should not dictate

my mindset.

 It was my rough tongue and warm nose

That would greet my future.

My organs and veins

absent of life,

an exhibition of fascinating misery

and tortured solitude

is not an expression of who I was

am

and want to be.

World War Winter

These yellow and red leaves fall like foxholes

The Maple stands with courage under fire.

Lonely snowfall swoops up in cackling bliss,

pushing off the ground with her ruby slippers and striped stockings.

I smell Winter’s wrath as it silently bellows a challenge:

“Then I was, like, if you can’t handle heels, stick with flats”.

The frolicking Willows of the neighbor’s pond

Danced a disco at sunset;

the faceted dance of bitter romance

Standing stock-still in a full-blown glower

My foot taps arrogantly.

My heel crunches popping icicles-

I have somehow acquired ruby slippers.

When there are no more spitfire leaves

All they’ll see are my eyes, forehead, the bridge of my nose

Rising from out of the trench in the ground

Slaughtered in Maple leaves. 

Thumbprint

Circular steps advancing to the threshold
the curved cliff-face,
the lee shielding the soft flesh of the hill.
Waves caught in permanent stasis
never rocking that rounded sail on the horizon.

A softness that bites my lower lip,
caressing my chin
dancing down the curve of my throat,
where you rest between my breasts
sparking excitement, a loving challenge,

Purple echos on an upper arm
in prints that sculpt a loathing
for your unyielding flesh
her fear
of what is so perfectly you. 

A Lesson in Poetry for Those Without a Degree in Creative Writing

(Or those who are not currently finishing their Creative Writing degree)

When  readers of my work are those who know me personally or have met me, they tend to confuse certain poetical or fictional elements. Readers who know the author often place themselves within the work or take it on a personal level. Poetry especially needs to be broken down: there is an author, a speaker, and there are objects, situations, or persons that the poem is revolved around. Specifically, the author and the speaker within a poem needs to be seen for what they are: different and separate entities. The author is writing with a voice of someone, or something, in a certain situation. Poetry and fiction are about imagination. Unless those people or places are specifically named, using proper nouns, they are applicable to almost anything.

I know my mother often looks at my poems and exclaims, "Oh dear, that's about me". I may have gotten my ideas for a character from her, from someone else's mother, or from bits and pieces of different random people that I have encountered, or perhaps solely from the imagination. Even if the title says something like: "Ode to My Mother," I could be taking the view of someone else writing to their mother - an egg hatching, for instance; or perhaps even a poem addressing its "mother"which is a pen. These are just examples, but apply to practically all poetry or fiction. Edgar Allen Poe did not, in fact, kill his neighbor and hear the dead heart beating under the floorboards; Poe is the author, the speaker committed murder.

I apologize for this little rant, but hopefully this helped some people who were very confused or perhaps just did not take a poetry class. 

Tired Swinging

Spinning, Whirling

Joining of skin - like rubber

And pavement

Newly scented tread soon

Gives way to beaten black.

Whirling faster

Touching…pulling away

Half of me then

Whole of me

Halfofmewholeofme

Parting, never going back

Quite that way.

Removed

Discarded

Alone…until

we play

And I again am whirling in the wind.

Then forgotten again,

Grass curling through

Around me and I am becoming

Part of the ground

Deflated and curled in a ball

Pillow soaked

Tears still flowing

I could sink – become rolled in this bed.

Until lips find me

Lips and teeth

Leave this mark on me

Leave me dizzy

In this jealous battering

Of love?

Like?

Spinning, twirling

Tossed in the air

Waiting for the hard ground.

(still in the editing process, so please comment and contribute ideas/criticism)

A Love Poem

A Love Poem by Janna is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

This poem is meant to be read aloud. So wherever and whenever you are - despite awkward and creeped out glances - please open your mouth and let these words flow through them. The sound is a very important element in much of poetry - something that I haven't employed often enough.

A Love Poem

If there were a way to have never met you…

Who would I be?

I am just a roll in the hay – a complete accident, of course.

But that’s not fair, because here I am, here she is…

I sit on the bench, awaiting my turn

Wishing my glare could penetrate

Your shield of utter disinterest.

Because I cannot say – it is far too difficult

For me to mutter unintelligibly under my breath

When you went away you changed…well ruined…my life

And there are no repercussions

And I hate you.

But I am today and can be then

So I will not take the bait and focus on fate.

Because If I had not met you

She would not be here

Little rolli polliness

My glad little image of me

Taking hobbling steps

That could represent your

Awkward display of disaffection.

So you are a means to an end

And despite this scrimmage before a jury

Of my peers and family

I am in a hurry to be quite

Finished with you. 

The Taming of the Great Lion

I wrote this piece for a scriptwriting class assignment. The assignment was to write a screenplay based upon a certain tarot card. Enjoy and please comment!

The Taming of The Great Lion

It is dusk. The Tamer of Lions sat with his legs crossed and back to a deep precipice. A Great Male Lion enters and sits across from him, studying him..

Tamer: “I will pass your test yet! I have not fallen, though wind has blown, hail has

battered, and cold has bitten me.”

Great Male Lion: “You hav been sitting but 10 minutes, oh Tamer, but I have

lived, eaten, slept, mated, killed, ran, played…where was I? Oh, yes I have endured where you have just sat in your longing to prove yourself to me, the mightiest of Males.

The Great Male Lion stares mightily down at the Tamer, licking his lips. The Tamer inches closer to the cliffs.

Tamer: “What then, can I do to prove myself to you?”

Great Male Lion: “You can wrestle with me until I decide the winner.”

Tamer: “That hardly seems fair…How can you fight me and also name yourself a judge?”

Great Male Lion: “Because I am the Great Male Lion and it is you who are proving

something to me; I have nothing to prove.

The Lion and the Tamer stand, facing each other in preparation of a duel. The Tamer reaches for a knife on his belt.

            “You would prove the worthiness of sharp metal, rather than your own mettle?”

Both examine the blade, the Lion with a bored distaste, the Tamer with deep longing.

Tamer: “You have a point I suppose, if I am to prove myself as strong as you, Lion…”

Great Male Lion: “Great Male Lion”

Tamer: I apologize, oh Powerful One; it will be a true wrestling match. Should we at least

move away from this precipice? ”

Great Male Lion: “Anyone can fall from a cliff to his death, but that is a weak death. If

            you truly have it in your heart to gain my approval, Tamer, then you would fight

me on the edge. A brave man would rather die at my teeth than jump and wait

for the river at the bottom to swallow him.

The pair begins to circle each other. The Tamer barely misses the edge of the cliff with a poor step and darts forward to catch himself, when the Great Male Lion’s teeth bear down on his arm. The Tamer grasps his mane and throws the Great beast down at his feet. Overpowered by fury at this offense, The Great Male Lion then devours the tamer in three bites.

Licking his bloody chops. The Great Male Lion: “The Tamer has certainly gained my

approval! My only sorrow is that my approval could have lasted longer.

End Scene. 

The friendly speck

The spot...moved. A simple dark dot on the linoleum floor was swaying; back and forth and side-to-side.
Maybe I should turn on some music...but it seemed to be hearing something I couldn't.
The edges of darkness blurred as it started inching toward me. An inch or so in diameter, I had time to consider as it approached.
It would pause often to continue the slow swaying to and fro. I detected a hint of sound as it did so; as if someone was humming under their breath. I was alone but for the dot.
I lay in bed, watching its slow and halting progress. What did it want with me? I saw no mouth that it could nibble on me with...
So I let it climb up my bed frame...it seemed to wrap itself around the post; so there was substance...not just shadow.
It swayed and blurred as it crossed the checkered sheet and...started for the open window. The curtain fanned over the bed as the wind pushed and pulled it playfully.
Suddenly, the little black dot stood (or rather stretched upward) to its full height and let the wind catch it in its current. It went swinging out my bedroom window. I am touched with a sort of longing that I will never know what it was or how it got here. I never reached out my hand to pet it ever so gently as I so wanted to. Now it is gone, as a bit of pollen out of tune with the autumn season.

Salmon Run

Silver and pink scales flash above the foaming grey water. The wriggling bodies slam over and over against the boulders that peek above the bubbling stream. They unsettle the shale and pebbles that mottle the floor. 

They are rushing upstream, every thrashing move they make gains little ground. 

Further upstream is the top half of a man; the rim of his hat not quite shielding his eyes from the rays of sun. He stands in rubbery grey overalls and grasps a pole, the line waving in the wind. 

Tucked out of sight, much farther downstream, is a shy brown bear peeking around the trunk and through the leaves of a shredding birch. Snuffling toward the rushing water, she dips a paw in, testing. Her claws ready to dig into the scales, her jaws ready to hold the struggling fish. 

The sunset strikes the leaves on the branches above to create the impression that we are somewhere where the world cannot touch us. Lost somewhere in the woods, where we happened upon this section of stream that twists and bends out of sight. 

There is a gauntlet playing out just under the surface. Scales falling and sides bruising against the stones that create a raised path down the middle of the stream. 

Hook and sinker waiting,

Claw and tooth baiting.

Salmon. Run. Jump. Swim.

Dive headlong into the falls.

Hold your breath in the evening air.

I hope you make it.

 

Ink Showers Make Spring Flowers

The doorbell is ringing. The echo carries down the hall. I cling to the corner
and peer around.
He carries...
A note.
I hold my breath as it rings again. But he waits no more and slides it into a crack under the door and steps down. His face is emotionless.
I was nothing
I was nothing
I am nothing
My fingers creep over my face, shaking.
A car engine revs and gravel crunches, the dog barking behind it, unsure of her job.
My home. It is home no longer.
A distaste for the button on the outside of the door,
A hatred for the chimes in the hallway,
I cannot use those steps again.
I remember the note.
The white lined paper crinkles in the wind. Paper is stronger than it looks. It holds words.
Words will change my life
and my words will change yours.
I rise from my slippery seat on the floor and make my way to the kitchen and take a cinnamon poptart from the box in the pantry. I break off a piece and feel a little better.
I feel the wind through the window screens and the smell of green leaves and spring flows through the house. And rain.
A droplet hits my shoulder as I stand by the sink window.
I want the words to smear. I want them to run through and off the paper as they should drop to my feet.
I want the soil to absorb the thin slice of tree and turn it into a daffodil.
Because there is nothing that could possibly be written there that is any more use than a pretty yellow flower.
I will turn those smears of ink into flowers deeply rooted in my garden.
But I will never know if I don't look.
Daffodils
Tulips
Tigerlillies...black ink...

The Broken Conch Shell

I am a shell.

Sometimes I am filled with soft, squishy things. Sometimes I am hollow. Sometimes I sound like the ocean because that is where I come from. I softly echo my origins. The salty waves that have licked me clean and smooth, the tiny white grain of sand that stuck to me long ago has incorporated itself into my being.

 That small grain has been blended into me and licked by those waves until it is no more than a tiny bump on my surface that you would not notice unless you looked for it. It has marred my tan with a speck of white. 

I will always know it's there.

I have been lifted into the air...and dropped until i violently shatter upon the rocks below. The waves lap ceaselessly up the sharp points of my demise. The seagull has eaten my soft inhabitant and leaves me hollow and in pieces until the ocean takes me back.

 A new shell will be molded from my fragments. 

Eyes On a Bookshelf

Eyes On a Bookshelf

I am Fergus. This spot on the bookshelf has been mine since they were built. The books were filled in about me; I liked their closeness. There are many, many books on these shelves that curved about the room to encircle the woman; she liked it too.

            The woman was Finn, and I liked her, I suppose. We had similar habits: we both stayed in the library mostly, leaving only for the short time it took us to use the facility, get the mail, get groceries, and eat. She used to go out all the time, or so she said. I did not know her then.

            We had our routine. Every morning she would call me for breakfast, and then when she had refilled the enormous mug for the third time, we made our way down the winding staircase to the library and took our places.

 Finn liked to sit in the big armchair after scanning the meticulously ordered shelves until something caught her eye. She always said that if she was supposed to read it, that it would seem to leap off the shelf of its own accord.

My neighbors were hardcover editions. Pride and Prejudice and Mansfield Park were my primary company, but on any particular day I would make my way around the twisting shelves and find the more adventurous, and my personal favorites: The Rats of NIMH or Redwall.

Finn would comment to me after reading a book and explain the conflicts or anything that really set her off…which was pretty much everything. From these descriptions I knew almost every book in the library. I enjoyed falling asleep, staring at the cover art and I found that my dreams would be particularly interesting.

Sometimes I am not sure that Finn knows that I am here. It is hard to discern whether she speaks to herself or to me; but the outpour is almost non-stop unless her mind is in the pages of an exceptionally good novel.

This morning I woke up from a night of odd dreams; tired. I dreamt of a highwayman come riding, riding…who kept waking me up. I suddenly missed Finn and decided I must look for her. Her bedroom was empty, as was the kitchen, but the familiar scent of hot vanilla rose from the steaming cup on the counter, so she must be close by.

I waddled toward the screen door to sit, staring out. There was Finn, her hair unkempt and free flowing. I could not see her eyes, but I knew that they must be like ice to accompany her tense body, arms crossed about her, yet her shoulders were back and her stance was firm. I knew that the man in front of her did not stand a chance. In fact, I was surprised that he hadn’t left yet, as so many had done before.

I had a good view of him from my position, though it was tempting to get onto the counter and look through the window above the sink, but I didn’t want to miss anything. His expression was unyielding. He neither advanced nor retreated and Finn did not seem to know what to make of it.

“That’s what you’re trying to do, you’re trying to forget I ever existed! Part of life is getting hurt and trying to figure out what it is that you need. Don’t push me away…” His voice took on a softer tone near the end. I wasn’t entirely convinced of pure intentions.

She stared him down, “Well, this is my life now, I don’t need you - I’m living the life I have always wanted.”

“Well I will come back and you think about it. How can you live the life you always wanted and not want to share it with anyone?”

Finn didn’t answer, but I so wished that she would. I growled deep in my throat. I shared it with her and I couldn’t be happier. But I wasn’t sure how happy Finn was. She was the same as she always had been, and that was…content.

Presently, Finn walked back inside, stiff-legged. She abhorred not having any response. I have never had that problem. She stepped around me absent-mindedly, hardly noticing me. That was just as well because I was still processing as I pressed my belly to the cool floor.

She did not read that day. I tried to lead her down into the library; I paced back and forth. I stayed on the shelf and dozed for a couple hours, waiting for her, but she never came. After my nap I came back upstairs to look for her. She was sitting on the porch. I came out and sat beside her, trying to determine where she was looking. I waited for her to tell me, she never was good at keeping her thoughts to herself.

Sure enough, “I love this place, Fergus. It’s like something out of a dream for me. I had planned for this my entire life. I had said that I wanted to live in a beautiful house with all the books I could ever read, not to be bothered by anyone. Now I’m sort of wondering what it might be like to be bothered everyday…which is stupid because I have no patience for that sort of thing.” She sighed heavily, and then frowned.

“Well, it’s no use dwelling on anything.” She got up and walked inside, slamming the screen door behind her. I hope that wasn’t directed at me, because that was rude.

After that, she went down to the library and stayed late into the night; reading a page of one book, a chapter of another, until a tower of books rose upon the stand beside her. She could not seem to find one that captured her mind enough.

“My mind will just not do what I want it to!” Finn exclaimed.

By now it must have been in the early hours of the morning and my eyelids would open no further than slits even when a hardcover flew inches past my nose.

The man came back the next day, and this time I made sure to be on the windowsill when he drove up. I narrowed my eyes at the full pot of coffee on the counter. There were two mugs next to it. How could she do this to me? Maybe I could get hair in it…

Yet, here he was at the door, being invited in. The man’s eyebrows rose in surprise; he had obviously expected to be turned away once again; in this, he and I were of the same mind. I narrowed my eyes at him, hoping he would take the hint. But he just looked at Finn. I had never seen anyone look at someone that way before.

“I thought we could go out for breakfast,” he commented.

“I like it here.” Finn poured the coffee. “Sugar? Cream?”

“Both please,” he smiled and looked about the room. “I like it here too; it suits you so well.” He removed his coat and placed in on the back of the chair. The jacket’s fibers were just so that I imagined tearing them out one by one and piling them in a dark corner where they would lay, forgotten.

“Well, thank you”, Finn replied, a shy smile playing upon her lips.

The man stayed all day just talking with Finn. She showed him our life. Then he came the next day. At some point I retreated down the winding staircase to the library. The room was dark, a pretend fire burned in the fireplace and the books were waiting for me. I jumped up to the second shelf and walked about the titles until I found something comforting. The cover art reminded me of some dream that I could never completely remember. Elves, fairies, dryads, and even birds danced upon the cover. Wildwood Dancing looked so terribly intriguing; if there were ever a world out there that looked like this, I would live there. I bet Finn would too. She always said that she could live in the Wildwood; and every time she picked up the book she did. This book was old, with a cracked cover and the spine was so soft it could be turned inside out. I settled next to this and shut my eyes. When I was ready to come back up, perhaps Finn would have made him leave.

That was not the case. I sat on the cool, tile floor with elegant poise. I hoped that Finn felt the commanding vibes that emanated from my eyes. I had gotten off the shelf and climbed all of those stairs, just for her to ignore me.

I did not bother coming up the next day. I was on the top shelf deciding between two paths that were diverged in a yellow wood, when I heard her getting up. Finn’s feet hit the floor then the usual few stumbling steps to the kitchen. A couple minutes later the smell of hazelnut filled the house and Finn’s footsteps were more purposeful. I waited for her to call me. I did not hear the familiar echo of her voice down the steps. Instead I heard the scuff of slippers as they padded out of Finn’s room. I knew that it couldn’t be her because she hadn’t left the kitchen, and these feet were heavier than hers.

I stayed on my shelf. I didn’t need her voice drifting through these books, complaining, describing, and speaking to fill the air. I breathed in heavier and thought I detected more oxygen than normal. But my ears echoed with the footsteps that were neither Finn’s nor mine.


Eyes On a Bookshelf by Janna Herchenroder is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Bad day

If you have not read this blog before, please first read one of my nice narratives before reading this post. This, unfortunately, is more of a rant.

There are certain things that ruin my day and I'm not sure that I should tell you what they are. I can tell you one.
This day started wonderfully, albeit late. Sleep does wonders for me, as it does for every living thing. I will not bother you with a breakdown of my day, but I tell you this just to rant, maybe to see if someone is like me out there.
 One thing in particular bothers me and it's something that I have been struggling with for years...close to a decade actually. I'd like to think it's just my thick German blood, but I've seen them, I've heard about how thin those women could be. I have seen my grandmother's wedding dress, the waist not much more than a handspan across. What I would give to have that waist.
Recently, after certain events, that must remain nameless - for now, I have started to become more and more concerned. I have tried everything...weeks of dieting and I started going to the gym about 9 weeks ago; I go 3-5 days a week. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
According to every individual, I'm missing something key. "It's because you need more muscle", "It's because you need to limit your calories" "It's because you're eating too few calories", "You just need to stop eating bread". The worst is when people say, "You just need to be more determined". Fuck. Fuck. Fuck you.
Another terrible thing is when someone tells me that I'm fine and I just need to stop obsessing about it. Stop. Lying. I know I'm not fine. There is no way in hell that I'm fine.
I'm that girl-who-would-be-pretty-if-she-was-just-thinner.
So I'm trying. Hard. I want to cry. I feel as if I have lost that ability. I am always on the verge, but I can't quite get there. I think it would help me relax. I have started to love running. When I'm running it feels like I am getting somewhere. Finally. But I get back and nothing has changed. I. Must. Not. Give. Up. Something has to help me, because this hurts.

I apologize for the rant. I will maybe write a narrative next time. 

On A Snowy Spring Day

The bitter snow batters against my window pane. It teases me, reminding me of other snows, other years...other...situations. The bricks of the other dorm, feet from the glass reminds me that this could easily be a cell; but it is one that I enjoy. Like the prisoner that feels safe behind familiar bars, I write to you. I wish that I was a princess in a tower, but my hair is not long enough to toss down to you. The outside world is daunting and I do not want to face it today.

It has been a long time since I wrote in this blog. I feel that I have good reason. Writing is painful. It is a flood of feeling that has broken the dam. And no dam is built for the hell of it. Every time I write I remember. Every memory hurts, whether bad or good, and I believe it is Nietzsche who (if I may paraphrase) says that forgetting is a good thing that makes room for the rest of your life.
I know that many of my friends and family believe that I have made bad decisions and that they judge me for them. I judge me for them too. I cannot help but believe that they were essential factors to who I am.
If I may speak to those few people for a moment or two (and note that I speak to any reader, because my experiences may help you in whatever way your life leads). Do not make mistakes with me, but walk with me through this life; when you stumble, I will grasp your arm, when I fall, pick me up. Let us not chastise each other by saying "pick your feet up higher over the branches", "watch where you're going". There may have been dust in your eye; I may have seen an eagle nesting. If we do chastise each other, let it be after we have picked each other up and dusted off.

Thought for the day:
Chastisement must always be accompanied by action, but action must not always accompany chastisement.