Sappho 31 Revived

(Yes, one of the reasons I want to learn Ancient Greek is to read Sappho in her original language. Yes, one of my goals in my life is to create a poetry collection building on all of her remaining fragments, with this being the first of its kind. I have priorities.

But since this is based on an original that has enchanted readers for literal millenia, check out a translation of Sappho 31 to fully see how I turn it inside out. The skeleton of my revival is mostly based on Anne Carson’s translations, but I definitely looked to others for inspiration.)

He seems to me a man who’d like to kill god
Whatever he is, sitting in front of you
Prowling to see any bent
To deconstruct who you are
But he’s sure he’ll sink into sweet legend


Your smile after is sweeter; but how is it
Even when he’s gone
My own tongue cracks. And every word’s drought. Fruitless.
Any peep from him puts the gall in my belly on wings
So when I look at you, even a moment
No speaking is left in me


If I see you next- a subtle fire will speed through my skin
He took my sight, he burst my ears
Already so your touch makes me seize and shake
Myself, or is that you?
But whatever I try to hold
I am still paler than grass, I am deaf from all of this buzzing
I am dead- or I seem to be at this rate


But what can be endured, can be recovered
As when I saw the sun-glades shimmer in human eyes
While speaking words stronger than bone, more resistant than sinew
Yet more sensitive than nerve and barer than skin
I remembered to see the poorer half that lives

PC:Google

Childhood

i am overcome with missing people 

i miss my old self 

before life happened 

i miss my old friends 

i miss my old family

i miss the boys i used to love

i miss the smile on my innocent face 

but most of all i miss the feeling that came with that smile. 

i didn’t even know what was to come 

a ran around with bare feet, gapped teeth, and skinned knees 

but i never cared 

i never even noticed 

i miss those summers by the pool 

i miss the security of those hugs 

the way i melted into their arms 

i always wanted to grow up and i never understood why people said stay young 

but i get it now 

all i wish for is to go back 

back to the sun on my cheeks and the light in my eyes. 

Pc- my mom circa 2010

poetry rambling

In English, we have a “March Madness” poetry bracket. I like that we are reading poetry instead of writing essays. Writing essays is fine too, but reading poetry is more enjoyable. After reading so many poems in one sitting, I’ve found a greater appreciation for poetry, because the range of poetry styles and topics is so diverse. I submitted “The Rose Family” by Robert Frost because I thought it was really cute. Another poem I really like is “My November Guest” by Robert Frost, even though I didn’t like it at first because it seemed like any other poem. Once I found an analysis of the meaning, however, I felt more appreciation for it. However, there were some other poems I also really liked. I liked reading “This is Just To Say”  by William Carlos Williams, although I’m not sure how exactly poems like that qualify as poems. I don’t like descriptive poems about landscapes and things, because they feel so dry and meaningless. I like the poems that don’t make any sense because they seem more profound that way. For example, I have no idea what “They Shut Me Up in Prose” by Emily Dickinson means, but it is really enjoyable to read, and I bet it will be even better when I understand it. Also, “Masks” by Shel Silverstein is really cute and it has a good message behind it. Shel Silverstein writes a lot of nonsensical, funny poems, but there are some really good, more heartfelt poems buried among the fun ones. Even some of his silly poems, like “The Generals,” potentially have a more serious message behind them. I find it really impressive how authors of poetry and other writing have such a capacity for evoking emotion and experiences.

Picture Credit: Department of English

I hope all is well

I hope all is well with you, and you’re doing fine.

Even though each day with you was a huge waste of time.

I hope all is well with you, and you’re happy with life.

Even when you brought only pain, struggle, and strife.

I hope all is well with you, because you were so sweet.

Even when you ended up rotting all my teeth.

I hope all is well with you because we were never meant to be,

But in reality I hope all is not well and you come crawling back to me.

Just trying my hand at some poetry and honestly its all up to interpretation. What do you think it’s about? Love maybe? I’m not sure if i’m being honest. I feel like in a way it’s an homage to the type of love thats now becoming normalized. Except it’s not because there is no respect or honor in this short poem. The love normalized now is terrible, but it’s been engraved in our brains since we were children.

He’s mean to you because he likes you.

I’ve never understood it. Why would he hurt me if he likes me? It’s never truly clicked, which I’m glad it never did. I think we have to stop normalizing this. If he treats you right, he likes you. If he buys you flowers, he likes you. If he genuinely tries, he likes you. That’s what should be said. In no way am I speaking from experience, nor is this some cry for help. Just my short opinion.

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PC: me

Emily Dickinson Poetry

I think Emily Dickinson’s “This World is Not Conclusion” is one of her most underrated poems. Here’s an analysis:

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In “This World is not Conclusion,” the opening line asserts that the world we know and inhabit is not the only one and that death is not final. The statement ends with a full stop, in contrast to the hyphenated lines which follow. This difference signifies that the narrator is firm in his/her belief, which could be ironic, as the rest of the poem is concerned with doubt. Next, Dickinson describes a “Species” which “stands beyond –,”  to be “Invisible, as Music – / But positive, as Sound –”. This paradox suggests that the world may not be as rational as we would expect if music and sound can have opposite qualities. “It beckons, and it baffles – / Philosophy, don’t know – / And through a Riddle, at the last – / Sagacity must go – ” the poem continues. That which the narrator seeks both compels him/her to investigate and leaves him/her bewildered in the search for truth – another example of juxtaposition. No conventional intellect can answer the question of what happens when one dies. The poet writes that scholars have puzzled over this “Riddle” for centuries while other men have adopted religious faith, especially Christianity. But Dickinson says that sometimes this faith slips in a world becoming increasingly skeptical. When this happens to an individual, they will laugh at themselves a little, ‘correct themselves,’ so to speak, and blush in case anyone saw. To believe in something whose existence cannot be proven by any means, – in fact, can oftentimes be disproven – is embarrassing, the poet insinuates. People “[Pluck] at a twig of Evidence – / And [ask] a Vane, the way –.” The “twig of Evidence” metaphor describes how little proof there is, but could also imply that there is much more to be found – a whole tree from which the narrator has plucked but a twig. Conversely, the tree could bear information that invalidates the narrator’s belief system, but which they choose to ignore for that very reason. Dickinson’s intentions here are ambiguous. Also, the notion that a weathervane can tell “the way” is nonsensical because this device constantly changes direction. Perhaps the word “Vane” punningly suggests that truth-seeking is all in ‘vain’ and won’t produce any results. The final stanza reads “Much Gesture, from the Pulpit – / Strong Hallelujahs roll – / Narcotics cannot still the Tooth / That nibbles at the soul –.” This excerpt alludes to a Church service, and then concludes with a metaphor to communicate that no expression of faith can inhibit the doubt which “nibbles at the soul”. The poem as a whole explores the conflict between faith and doubt, especially when it comes to belief in an afterlife. It is up for interpretation as to whether this belief is well-founded or ill-considered.

an edgy poem like who am I to complain

DIRGE OF A BATTERED NATION

For this, the clay grew tall?

I think as political landscapes crumble

As the fast food employee,

with a college degree,

grumbles.

Into this?

Into the vision of empty factories and shattered glass

Into cafes where no longer,

We talk with one another.

Into fist fights that end in shootings and knifings

Born into this?

Into hospitals so expensive, it’s cheaper to die

Into a land that shakes with explosions

And vibrates with each war cry

Walking and living through this

Dying because of this

The republica fell,

and the clay grew tall

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Poetry Pt. 4

dear [me],

i love the freckles that dapple your collarbone,

your double-jointed bent-backward elbows

i love the scar under your chin

and your dark unruly eyebrows

i love the blister you wear on your ring finger from holding a pencil wrong

i love your frizzy hair on rainy days

your voice cracks in the chorus of our song

i love how you speak to yourself when no one’s around

how you stumble over words when people are

i love how you sit slouched over at the table

and only ever play taylor swift in the car

i love the way your nose wrinkles when you laugh at your own jokes

but you loving yourself

is the thing i love most.

yours truly,

mine forever,

lulabean.

untitled V

i put salt on watermelon

to make it taste sweeter.

i wonder if all these tears

will one day make my happiness taste sweeter too.

starlight

the brightest stars are the closest to burning out.

maybe they already are

but you’re too far from them to know it.

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a curious sensation

they shouldn’t call it falling in love. 

i feel like i’m floating.

the falling part comes later

and some might call it heartbreak.

i hold my poems like a mirror

i read my handwritten stanzas back to myself

and i’ve never felt both so expressive and so understood.

i hear you,

you see me.

i’m staring through my soul with this magic we call poetry.

The Woman in the Window

When I was the age of 9, or maybe 10, I lived in a little bungalow on Montgomery St. It had wooden floors, no AC, and a backyard littered with spiky oak leaves. I would sweep these leaves off my trampoline before jumping to the sky. Bounce, squeak, bounce, squeak. Flinging my limbs into various shapes, I would flip and glide through the air.

One day, one bounce, I spotted a face. Over the fence, in the window of the old people’s home next door, a woman sat watching. She was old with a face creased like tissue paper and a fierce black mane of hair. We held eye contact for the second I hung suspended in the air. Bounce, I smiled. Squeak. Bounce, I waved. Squeak. Bounce, she smiled back. Squeak.

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Her eyes remained sad though, and even as I lay in my bed that night with trampoline-skinned knees, I couldn’t stop thinking about the woman in the window.

The following morning, I got out a thick black sharpie and several sheets of blank paper. I headed outside and, with resolve, started tracing out big letters. “Hello,” I wrote. “My name is…” I climbed up the ledge of the fence, and sure enough, the woman in the window spotted my paper messages.

I felt as if I had made a friend.

I don’t remember when it was that I first noticed the blind in the next-door window had been drawn. I was used to regular ambulance sirens outside the old people’s homes, but when my friend’s room was left empty, it affected me personally. Wherever she was now, I hoped her sad eyes had regained a spark of joy.

Poetry Pt. 3

another batch of poems:

unitled iv

it’s time i stop waiting on you

just think how many dandelion wishes

i’ve wasted on you

womanhood

i thought ‘womanhood’ meant

blood spilling between my thighs,

lipstick the same shade of crimson,

boyfriends and sparkling champagne.

but now,

i hurry home before it gets too dark,

i clutch keys between my knuckles.

[remember to use the public restroom in a pair, 

just in case, just in case.]

now,

i report accounts daily for unwanted dick pics,

i bite my tongue as a catcaller whistles,

daring the older man across the street

to look me in the eyes.

now,

i find imperfection in every inch of my skin,

i am told it is my stomach is a distraction, 

because, “boys will be boys”.

now,

it means

glancing over one shoulder and

eating disorders and

snide comments,

pervy math substitutes,

catcalls and 

cramps and-

on my 13th birthday,

my mother bought me pepper spray.

this is womanhood.

Poetry Pt. 2

A collection of unrelated poems of mine:

to be perfect

i’ve always liked numbers, the way they add up perfectly

with only one answer, one solution. i used to wish all things were as perfectly

organized. i wished i were organized as perfectly,

wish i looked it, dressed it, acted it.

wished all my problems could be solved perfectly.

set equal to zero and isolate the x: a mechanical

procedure taught from a textbook. perfectly

scoring academic tests is easy enough

but answers in life don’t add up as perfectly.

people don’t work like 1, 2, 3, experiences aren’t

scored alphabetically, and i can’t live this perfectly,

because i am not.

i am not perfect or close to it. but i am perfectly –

imperfect.

summer rain 

i take her hand,

bare feet slipping on the soaken grass.

we watch the rain as it falls 

and speckles the pool surface.

“one, two, three”

interlaced fingers and shrieks of laughter 

as we fall with the raindrops.

two skinny bodies in polka dot underwear

crashing through the water.

together, we tilt our heads towards the clouds

and drink in the summer rain –

nothing has ever tasted so good.

untitled i

you kept me afloat for so long,

        when you drifted away

     i forgot how to swim.

untitled ii

i wonder if being

in love

will make me feel any less

incomplete.

untitled iii

i think it’s strange 

no one likes a caterpillar

but everyone likes a butterfly.

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