Tuesday, 26 April 2016

Catch a Body, by Ilse Bendorf

I liked this poem. Here is your annual reminder to tell people that they are doing great. To remind your friends that they are good at things. To tell a stranger that their dress is beautiful. Without asking for anything back; just because. The world is nice.

Catch a Body

Salinger, I’m sorry, but “Don’t ever tell
anybody anything” is a string of words
I would like to wrap up in canvas and sink
to the bottom of the Hudson, or extract
by laser from the ribcage of all of us
who ever believed it, who felt afraid
to miss someone, to be the last one
standing. “Tell everyone everything” is
not exactly right, but I do believe that if
your mother looks radiant in violet
you should tell her, or when a juvenile
sparrow thrashes its wings in dustpiles
and reminds you of a lover’s eyelashes,
you should say so. We are islands all of us,
but we are also boats, our secrets flares,
pyrotechnic devices by which we signal
there’s someone in here we’re still alive!
So maybe it’s, “don’t be afraid.” We can
rewrite Icarus, flame-resistant feathers,
wax that won’t melt, I mean it, I’ll draw up
a prototype right now, that burning ball
of orange won’t stop us, it’ll be everything
we dream the morning after, even if we fall
into the sea—we are boats, remember?
We are pirates. We move in nautical miles.
Each other’s anchors, each other’s buoys,
the rocket’s red, already the world entire.

From Blood Orange Review.

Wednesday, 6 April 2016

Doorknobs

"There are times when we can feel destiny close around us like a fist around a doorknob. Sure, we can resist. But a knob that won't turn, a door that sticks and never budges, is a nuisance to the gods. The gods may kick in the jamb. Worse, they may walk away in disgust, leaving us to hang dumbly from our tight hinges, deprived of any other chance in life to swing open into unnecessary risk and thus into enchantment."

Fuck yes, Tom Robbins! So, this is the quote that will be introducing my novel.

Incidentally, the reason I am not publishing a poem a day in April is because I am bored of not having a novel yet. How the fuck has this taken me a year already?! All this touring the continent with my dreamy band and making out with cuties and having a job and stuff is very nice, but goddammit, I am the world's most impatient brat and I want my book nowwwwwwwwwww.

 So, uhh, that's what I'm doing every day this month instead of poetry.

My draft is an ungainly beast. So far this week, I have deleted 16, 780 words. Ow! It hurts!

But it's better now. It's starting to make sense. And there are new words, better words even. For example, today I used the phrase "horseradish intent". Nice, huh? It makes sense in context, I'm sure. It makes sense even if you haven't drank fifteen coffees.

Anyway, my book has everything I think is nice. Rollercoasters & magic mushrooms & fortune tellers & a punk show mosh pit & loads of jerking off & thunderstorms & all the queer makeouts ever & a drag queen minister & hitchhiking & abortions & witchcraft &&& MAGIC.

And so many happy endings. I'm a sucker for a cute ending. Now get over here and kiss me, kiss them all!