I’m that girl:
crazy cat lady
wants pointe shoes only because she’s never had to wear them
still believes in fairies
runs around like a little kid
can’t cross the road alone
Mummy still dresses me because, yes, she has better fashion sense
sci-fi geek, coffee-guzzler
literary addict, tree-hugger
control freak, grammar nazi
book snob, because that book just sucks that’s why
squeals over good news
giggles over cute guys
kinda slow on the uptake
but quick with the comebacks . . . except, not really
the one your mother loved
and your ex-girlfriend hated
and you couldn’t figure out
but it’s okay because she couldn’t figure her out either
brave on the outside
shaking on the inside
sometimes it’s so lonely
will i ever be good enough? can you ever love
writing this poem
reading this poem
liking this poem because i’m starting to realize that
wait for the one who meditates your syllables in silence
Carla M’s new poem moves you. Well, moves you to inaction at any rate (though true love is a thing of action). She preaches patience from the pulpit of hope and reminds us that there are things beyond a pretty smile and charming words. That love is less about I want you and more about how they’ll feel inside.
Wait for it.
Even for those of us who think we might have already found It – the one who will look through the hill and see only your face in the trees – these words are a whisper of gratitude, a reminder of the way the universe had conspired to end our waiting.
Namaste, Carla M, namaste.
I don’t really feel like writing much, but here, have poetry.
Presents/Presence of Mind
I want to run away. And then find my way back. I want to fly in a hot air balloon. I want to swim like a fish, so confident in his environment that every twitch of a fin has the grace of a dancer. I want to twinkle like the stars. Better yet, I want to be hugged like them: wrapped up in the bounteous black arms of an infinite mother.
I want to stop breathing. And then start all over again, so I can finally appreciate this mostly-nitrogen-but-also-conveniently-oxygen-containing gift of Nature that this breath is to this body. I want to shut my eyes so tight the world explodes in colour when I open them again. I want to drown my sorrows. . . in chords and melodies, bury my bad feelings like fingers in fertile soil. I want to scream at the rain and dance in the mud. I want to feel electricity, chase it through my veins and pray don’t get a heart attack if I lose the race.
I want to taste happiness. On the tip of my tongue. Fleeting, like overpriced cotton candy. Or your favourite ice cream. Or the best kisses: short, but oh so sweet. I want to run with eyes and arms and heart wide open, rushing headlong into something that awfully amazing or amazingly awful. Because I want to live and laugh and love and cry and not care about anyone who doesn’t matter (and if they don’t care, then they don’t matter).
So I want to be loved. And respected. And yeah, maybe envied a little bit. Because if people aren’t jealous then you’re not doing it right. But at the end of the day, I want what everyone else wants: a warm bed, with warm arms to hold you. Eyes that warm when they see you and a heart that warms you to the tips of your fingers and toes, even when you’re cold and cranky and unlovable.
But that’s just what I want. How about you?
Performed at the UWI WJC Writer’s Club weekly “Open Expressions” night on Feb 29, 2012.
© R.A.S. 2012
I wanted to have a geek post about Neuroscience or medicine, or something else I’m studying that I feel like the world should know about (because education should be about the sharing of knowledge, not just its retention), but every time I move to start typing some long esoteric word, my fingers hesitate and I second-guess. And third-guess. And delete instead.
Because I think passions should maybe come naturally, without the need for a jump start. And if I was really interested in what I had to say, the words would be flying on wings like my fingers on these keys right now. They only stop when they hit a cloud bank.
So instead I will share something that I am passionate about, that has inspired passion in me, and was born of passion in someone else.
Staceyann Chin is a Jamaican, just like me. But that’s pretty much where the comparison ends. She is half-Asian and a lesbian and a feminist and loud with crazy hair, not afraid to scream her mind. She is skinny as a colt, with lungs like an elephant, and she is unapologetically, rawly beautiful.