Nets

You thought you would break me,
Boy, you don't even know me.
Aeons ago, I dropped my heart into a stream
and rode in a wicker picnic basket to the sea.
Thought your mouth had found the last line
I forgot to sever, but we were just
playing pretend.

No use hiding in the closet, because
even the pretend things can hurt you
and I whistle as I sew my shadow
back onto the soles of my feet
and you don't let the pane
hit you on the way out.

Forever in motion, when do we
Rest? Where is the mermaid's grotto,
cold seaweed bed, octopus garden,
and the waves forever crashing,
pounding wicker walls into sand
cradling the heart, still breathing
although underwater.

I'm sitting at my window. I'm waiting
for the wind to sweep me off my feet.
Second star to the right and
straight on 'til mourning,
Boy, why are you crying?
I haven't broken yet.

“Dancing Drifters”

future forms freeze
under umbrellas
cement chrysalises
knock, knock knucklebones.
yawning, yesterday
obstructs one option
useless eulogy, undulating
antithesis
nebulously nears
delight,
yet your yellow
overtones obliterate,
utilize.
rain, restless, rinses,
scours senseless sainthood
ending every entrance
never nothing now.
situation simply
intrinsic isolation,
bruising barely,
light lisps;
ebony exits earn
fragile failure.
evermore
adding
rabid reverberations
;
haunting hurts,
ointment on
wobbly western walls
creates cacophony, complete
abstraction.
nudging new
interactions, ideas
hover haphazardly.
oscillating obstinately
levers lift
different doubts dubiously
axing away as
gears grinding
rolling ridges rising
upwards,
dancing drifters
glide gradually
effortlessly evade
?

"Kite Strings"

Your eyes track blinking signals as we speed along
On a road with no wind wafting us forward except
Using up ten minutes under stars, unraveling

Seconds out of open windows like string.
Hold that pose, close your eyes and say the magic words,
“Open sesame?” and perhaps fly outside, under even our own radar into
Uncharted seas. No sign of familiar fish acrostics here.
Let you drive? How hard can it be, to let you lead the
Dance? Apparently surrendering the

Kite string goes against my personal beliefs. Odd,
I swerved to evade a butterfly and hit a bird instead;
Steady my hands, why won’t my fingers
Stop shaking.

Maybe that means I shouldn’t drink this
Early in the day, but caffeine usually

Aids my creativity, amplifies my energetic gifts,
Glistening spools of words running down fingers, leaving
Aged coffee constellations on the kitchen floor
In no particular pattern. But are there truly
No portents to be found in these sunroof stars?



Well, I'm not in any poetry writing class this semester, but some of my friends are getting me back into writing. I'll post what I write, but it'll probably be pretty erratic pacing.

conversation poem

For this assignment, we were asked to read a poem and then respond to it some way with a poem of our own. I read two poems titled "Song" by Christina Rosetti from my British Literature textbook from last year, and then tried to basically write a mirror poem of my own. I'm not certain whether I like how precisely copied they are. I'm not certain whether the poems I wrote are mine, but regardless of my concerns, here is what I wrote and what Ms. Rosetti wrote.

"Song"

She sat and sang alway
  By the green margin of the stream,
Watching the fishes leap and play
  Beneath the glad sunbeam.

I sat and wept alway
  Beneath the moon’s most shadowy beam,
Watching the blossoms of the May
  Weep leaves into the stream.

I wept for memory;
  She sang for hope that is so fair:
My tears were swallowed by the sea;
  Her songs died on the air.
-Christina Rosetti, 1848

“Type”

She sat and typed alway
  By the blue pixels of the screen,
Watching characters dodge and sway
  Beneath binary beam.

I sat and wrote alway
  Beneath solar lamp glaring gleam,
Watching the pages of the day
  Sweep paper sheaves to ream.

I wrote for ennui;
  She typed for grades beyond compare:
My thoughts were digitized debris;
  Her rank had not a pray’r.
-Laura Kean, 2009

“Song”

When I am dead, my dearest,
  Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
  Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
  With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
  And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
  I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
  Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
  That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
  And haply may forget.
-Christina Rosetti, 1848

“Type”

When you are dead, my dearest,
  Who says I’ll write to you;
Plan to wear my furious face,
  But you won’t have a clue:
With velvet lid above you
  Most silent you’ve sat yet;
Your voice I’ll not remember,
  Your voice I can’t forget.

I will note your many flaws,
  I’ll note the wrinkled tie;
I will note the darkened flowers
  Stink still under blue sky:
And fuming through the churchyard
  Expectations ne’er met,
Maybe I will remember,
   Maybe I can forget.
-Laura Kean, 2009

List Poem

"Like You"

I like you; I, like you.
I hate like you. I wait like you. I won’t like you. I won’t, like you.
I laugh like you. I can’t drink like you. I sing loudly like you.
I tell secrets like you; secrets –like you.
I braid his hair like you. I refuse to act like you; refuse like you.
I dance for joy like you. I am a jack ass like you. I have a name like you.
I don’t want to, like you. I don’t want to like you.
I will one day fly away like you. I feel depressed like you.
I have four sisters like you. I need more sleep like you.
I read libraries of books like you. I cry on the phone like you.
I am afraid of heights, like you; afraid of heights like you.
I wish I remembered like you. I cannot bear my parents like you.
I aspire to become a teacher like you; aspire –like you.
I yell too loud into the microphone like you.
I avoid running so that my bones sing like you; avoid –like you.
I treasure my fortress made of secrets, like you; of secrets like you.
I doodle insects and eyes in college rule margins like you; eyes like you.
I cannot see past my irritation about people like you; cannot like you.
I wish my legs could run faster, farther, longer like you.
I do not let people reach out and touch me like you; touch me like you.
I would relish taking a year away from school like you.
I broke my collarbone landing wrong after a leap –like you;
landing wrong after a leap like you.
I wrote words that I loved in my spiral bound notebook like you;
like you.

03.31.09

object poem

“Health Tips for a Cleaner Conscience”

An immaculate paper cup sits
emasculated in its 60% post consumer
fiber vest, its adorable border
pattern alternates between Reuse,
Recycle, and Produce as many
black plastic masks to top
adult appropriate sippy cups as
humanly possible. Seriously
black is in this season, and all
the rage in the landfills.
Inside cardboard cup beats
teabag heart, crying tainted
yellow tears into scalded water
waiting to burn tongue into
prophesying submission to
health guru’s latest fiddle-faddle.
After all, tea contains the
elixir of life everlasting
along with surplus antioxidants
that cure cancer, new
vitamins to eradicate Alzheimer’s,
and a special chemical that kills
middle class guilty conscience.
Keep ignoring the bull whale
blowing a steam signal warning
in your morning Earl Gray ocean,
and eventually the problem
should evaporate.

02.24.09

epistolary poem

Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner Thoughts

You’ll be coming ‘round the mountain
when you come like the sun
rising on bowls of cereal
and coffee breathing bitter life
into my brain, still cold
and soggy with milky sighs of sleep.
Some days I can see you peeking
‘round the grandfather clock pendulum,
"here hide and seekers counted
the seconds between clasped fingers,"
your shadow oscillating short
and long, measuring the days
until I can see you, not just
your pen ink scribbled shape
outlined against the light.

When you ask me to give you
the ketchup for your chicken fingers
what stories will I pass across the table to you
accompanied by corn syrup and tomato paste?
Over lunch shall I share with you
bard songs of swashbuckling derring-do,
adventures when friends became
family as we walked the plank
into Miller fountain, “They threw me in
on my twenty first birthday, you know,”
or will my words microwave
these nuggets of my past-present,
sucking the juices from syllables and
spilling them onto your corduroy
jumper colored the blue green of water waves.

Daughter, I think about you
even though I do not know
the hour of your advent. Evenings
I stare at my computer screen
with my ears plugged into the plastic
shells that echo the sea’s breathing
in and out with the movement of the
time, and I think forward to baby’s ticking heart,
a metronome marching beat of
yellow rubber galoshes in puddle
oceans and pounding feet on stairways.
I write you into the strands of
my memory; “I dreamed about you
before you were born,” dreamed you
into the rainbow throw rug on the lap of God.
02.10.09

My class is going to workshop this one; I can't wait to hear what they think, but I'm nervous, too.