Inspiration: Simone White

Photo of Simone White by Pat Cassidy Mollach via the Poetry Foundation.

This summer, I will be posting some of the poems that inspired us this past semester.  Chanelle Bergeron chose this poem by Simone White: 

It Must Be Shameless 

         by Simone White

Apart disclaimed wicked pea, split soft skin

of the principle princess, who writhes,

a little blood passes her perineum every night,

grey linen sheets flax talisman plot luxe

to strip and scrub all gore

a plain bar of secret white soap

it is a pine tree, it is an orange blossom, is it a rose hip

under a baby tongue, blood cuts

punisher, swear it closed, closes it

 

Here's another one by White that I loved, ["Hour in which I consider hydrangea"]. You can listen to White read the poem at the link, which I highly recommend. It's such a compelling and lovely poem about motherhood. Thanks for pointing us to this wonderful poet, Chanelle! 

The Bridge on the Neretva

 by Julia Brent 

 

There it was -- the bridge on the Neretva. 

The town of Mostar on the river Neretva.

 

To the rushing, engulfing, cold blue below

We jumped off of the bridge on the Neretva. 

 

Once a city of peace now caught in an ethnic war 

deep seeded division at the bridge on the Neretva. 

 

Croat nationalists in 1993

forced relocation across the bridge on the Neretva.

 

The call to prayer resounding, 

mosques on the east of the bridge on the Neretva. 

 

Icons of popes and saints in rising steeples, 

churches on the west of the bridge on the Neretva. 

 

Bloody Sunday, brother betrayed brother, 

Resurrected cross on a hill by the bridge on the Neretva. 

 

A family sits at a cafe on the  river Neretva

and a naive Julia crosses the bridge on the Neretva. 

 

Someday

by Julia Langenderfer

 

Someday his love would find him, that's what his mother always said.

But finding that special person seemed like looking for a needle in quicksilver. 

By the time Caleb found him, he was broken beyond fixing and he felt as if he was standing at the edge of a cliff staring down at an abyss filled with stormy black clouds.

Though there were licks of sunlight piercing through. It was the prince's light, shining brighter than anything he had ever seen.

But the darkness dragged him down and he wasn't sure if his prince could help but then a clawed purple hand reaches, pulling him slowly towards the light and through the storm.

The Prince's voice reaches him, lightly accented and filled with joy and he thinks maybe he can be happy but then in an instant his love is snatched away and he falls into darkness again but there was pinpricks of light as his friends support him. 

His love was their friend and they miss him too. His Mollymauk, gone but never ever forgotten.

And maybe, just maybe, if perhaps he's very lucky he can find him again. 

Through the dark that clouds him, the tiny blackberry center that his love still remains hidden under the corruption and darkness of another. 

The other is the one who had the body before his love did but his love filled and brought a life to it that the other never can. When the other, Lucien smiles, it is dark and filled with a viciousness that his Mollymauk never had. 

Even in his darkest, worst moments, Molly was bright and mischievous, his smiles were wicked but filled with kindness and his red eyes always lit with a spark of curiosity and zest for life. 

He was outrageous and the most ostentatious person Caleb had ever met but yet he had found himself drawn to him like a moth to a flame. There had been a pull he'd had a hard time resisting towards Molly's light and brightness and his way of trying to leave every place better than he found it. 

Mollymauk was someone who had brought light, colour and happiness to anyone and everyone he met and even though he would never admit it to anyone, Caleb had been no exception. 

Wind Chimes

by Angelina Morin

A pastel store with chimes and decor meant to be strung to a tree or in a garden

She had wind chimes hanging from her ceiling in the first room you entered 

They harmonized together with the wind of every visitor 

Japanese beetles that are commonly mistaken for ladybugs

All they were missing was that red coat 

Roses, she loved roses

And hummingbirds  

Her home was warmed by her grandchildren and creatures 

Sweet strawberry hard candy, and warm milk with our fruit loops 

She’d take you in, if you wandered to her doorstep

The longer I look the more I see her 

But not her,  

Just the memory of her that I breathe into

To become the wind to 

Her immortal chime

Pink Ghazal

by Megan Eason 

 

I never was too fond of the color, pink,

until I saw it deeply painted in your cheeks, pink. 

 

I found myself noticing it in more places then,

Like how your lips were also that nice deep color, pink. 

 

I could spot it all over town when I least expected to,

in cherry blossoms, children's sundresses, sunsets, all with the color, pink. 

 

I sit back and wonder about how it comes in all shades,

and how all of the variants reflect you in my mind, pink. 

 

Even the meaning of my name in Hebrew, pearl,

has bits and flecks of you inside it, pink.  

This Is Not a Fairytale

by Erin Wendorf

This is not a fairytale.

There is no princess in danger

or a servant girl

who wishes for freedom;

there is just an ordinary girl

living an ordinary life.

There is no castle,

or evil stepmother,

or magic mirror;

this girl has two parents

who love her

and only want the best for her.

There is no curse,

whether by poisoned apple

or spinning wheel,

or animal companions

who help the girl get ready for prom.

There are no fairies,

good or evil;

no dragons,

no dwarves,

no thorn bushes,

and no glass casket.

In this world,

women are wary

and don't marry

men they have only known

for three days.

In this world,

women have their voices stifled

by something far more powerful than a sea witch.

In this world,

women intentionally freeze their own hearts.

We are trapped in a society

that isolates us,

even more so than a stone tower

What are we waiting for?

Prince Charming?

No.

Our perceptions of the men we meet

are distorted by our rose-colored

glass slippers.

Adam is nothing but a beast.

In this world,

we save ourselves,

and if that makes us less feminine,

so be it.

 

Heights

by Kayleen Pacheco 

“Better safe than sorry”
I have always stuck to this
No matter my age.

When I was 7
I would never jump off
The pretend frightful,
Fragile cliffs
Surrounded by wispy,
White clouds 
My friends and I imagined.

We imagined
That foxes were chasing us,
Through the dark woods.
The only way to safety
Was taking a leap of faith,
Down the cliff.
Funny I know,
We were 7.

In reality, we were
Jumping off 
A big, solid, bulky,
Gray rock,
Buried on a small,
Green grassy hill,
Just enough height 
For our imaginations
To go wild.

I can still hear their 
Little voices
Running and cheering
Me on, 
“C’mon Kayleen, 
Jump, You got this!”

Truth be told
I was actually 
Afraid of heights.

 

The Park Where I Grew Up

by Krista Wiese

 

I am trapped beside The Moms—

mine and the one she calls her friend

though the grating tones 

of their weekly conversations say otherwise.

Today’s chatting grounds: the park where

I spent my childhood.  Now,

I sit with homework on my lap, pretending

to enjoy the essay I’m reading and

anything but intrigued by the 

probiotic, essential oil, meal-prep 

banter beside me. 

 

Some distance away, 

The Kids (Adam & Andrew) send Frisbees

hurtling through the sky where once, 

I flew kites and watched fireworks

explode in July. Now there is no sky

above my head—only the wasp nest

dangling from the ceiling of the picnic shelter

and the cobwebs crowding my thoughts

and other things that loom always 

above me. The Moms are not afraid

of the wasps like I am;

they battle on.

 

If I close my eyes, 

all banter blurs into one beige monotone, 

interrupted only by boyish shouts 

and the clamor of the birthday gathering

at the picnic table too close:

that happily dissonant song and

plastic forks against soft cake

and paper plates. As The Birthday Girl 

squeals, I open my eyes. 

Cheery cardigans and stale old clogs

await my contribution 

to the monotone as though

I’ve been waiting my turn

all this time.

The Only Family Activity

 by Jenna Bennett 

Hockey night at the Times Union Center
The blue walls and off-grey concrete floor
The cold air blasted to keep the ice frozen
The sun's setting rays coming through the large glass wall
But I preferred to stand in the shaded parts.
The studium of the photo.

The ‘00 jersey is the first of the bunch... but maybe its a cruel joke insinuating he is the root of my problems
The ‘01 jersey that my mother wears… because aren’t mothers supposed to be your #1 ?
The ‘02 jersey for my brother… kind of strange he wears it, as he surely never comes second in their hearts
The ‘03 jersey I wear is the last of the bunch…its quite easy to see I am the trail behind, the shadow, the mostly forgotten

I do not remember
What was going through my mind
What I was staring at
Where I wanted to go

It was probably
“I don’t want to be seen or associated with them”
The cheerleaders I idolized (and who indirectly taught me if you're pretty enough, you’d get attention from my father)
As for where I wanted to go...literally anywhere they weren't.

We don't have many family photos for me to look back on
But in the few we do have,
all of them have that sort of look.
The look of me spaced out, detached, disengaged.
The look of never fitting in
Even if we wear the same clothes.
Even if I have my fathers blue eyes.
Even if I have (some of) my mothers mannerisms.
I'll never be fit for them, but I am glad of this.
The punctum of the photo.

A band of trembling sunlight rippling

by Laura Austin 

A band of trembling sunlight rippling- 

Catching my plants in warmth

like the trickle of a summer creek.

Safe from the cold outside, they cannot evade the patterns written into their biology:

the secret code 

that instructs their leaves to shift into brown and crisp 

and fall - 

little pencil shavings on my bedroom floor.

And the bits of them that are alive? 

They 

s

    t

         r

             e

                 t 

                     c

                          h

toward my window. 

They inhale the sunlight.

Devour it.

Safely store a solar spirit in those scarce, emerald, jewelry box leaves. 

Because despite appearance at first glance- 

crumbling or cascading -

they are

alive.

I Wish I Was the Fun Girl

by Lelia Saffold 

I wish I was the fun girl.

Not the boring, sits alone in the corner girl.

 

I sometimes wish I had the urge to drink and make questionable choices like my friends.

But I’ve always been the designated driver, sipping on a Shirley Temple girl.

 

I’m the loner at the party who slips away from the crowd in search of the host’s dog.

(That is, if I even get invited to the party at all)

The awkward, antisocial, and just wants to go home and go to bed girl.

 

I didn’t know I was so unlike the others until the midst of college.

The “you need to loosen up and let go” girl.

 

A voice in the depth of my soul begs me to be different, be outgoing, be confident.

Girl why aren't you like them?

But an overwhelming force tells me I will never be the fun girl.

1992

 by Kate Perko 

 

within thin plastic pages

sit moments documenting

“the happiest day of their lives”

 

she’s wearing a purple-polka-dotted tank top

purple striped pants

a virgin gaze 

he wears a blue polka-dotted sweater vest

a newlywed smile

 

she’s held up by time

before it slipped away 

the hands of her new husband

before he could not longer hold her up 

as if she was trying to show off that horrible outfit

before it was thrown away 

and her new flashy gold ring 

before it was lost and rusted 

I can see the smiles

before they faded 

and hear the giddy laughter 

before it got silent 

 

smiles

polka-dotted clothes

hope of a happy marriage

happy family

are trapped in an 8x8 photo

Black Coffee

 by Mia Shelton 

I told my mother about you.

The first time I told her, the words coming out of my mouth were sugary sweet and saccharine.

The last time, my eyes were heavy and full, ready to pour like a cloud before a thunderstorm. 

You placed me on the highest cliff only to push me off the edge,

to watch my skull crack open and leak thick, warm blackberry juice on the cold ground.  

My mother's voice was soft; coffee brewing and dry heat whirring in the background. 

"Only a bad partner blames his woman," she quipped.

She poured herself a cup of pure black coffee, took a sip, and sighed with a knowing smile,

"and only bad coffee needs to be dowsed with cream and sugar."

Ms. Pat

by Jazzmine Shire 

The trees probably swayed in delight

I’m sure the birds sang a little louder

And the crickets probably chirped a melody

As your skin drank in the sun

Shoulders swallow down vitamin D 

Like a cold glass of orange juice for breakfast

The toast bacon and eggs would be nothing without you

 

We can’t see your big brown eyes

They’re double shielded behind

Closed lids and large frames

 

Your full lips

Turn slightly towards  

The warmth from the sun 

Juicy like the berries you'd refuse to eat

 

You are hot chocolate personified

Velvety brown skin drapes your toned arms

A string of pearls drape your clavicle 

Like the mini marshmallows you would sneak in my cup

 

It's warm 

and happy 

and full of life

 

The trees probably swayed in delight

I’m sure the birds sang a little louder

The crickets probably chirped a melody

As the sun focused all her energy on you