The Book Club, Newsletter, & I Wanna Be A Poem
Yet again, another long day. Complete. Finished. As soon as this blog is over and done. I finally got through with my reading, for tonight, with The Picture of Dorian Gray and White Teeth for my Gothic and Contemporary British Literature classes, respectively. Both have been enjoyable reads so far. But, I don’t want to rant on about them and what I’m doing in school. I’ll probably get to posting my thoughts on the books in my new section entitled Book Club. It is a new idea that I’m working on in order to let my readers (all 2 of you, possibly??) keep up with what I’m reading at the moment. I’ll probably keep it updated every month or so.
Another thing that I’m putting together is the Newsletter. I want to have this newsletter in order to keep people updated on what’s going on with the site and possibly just other random things. It’s, actually, more of a project for me, so I can practice my writing skills in another forum.
I did come across a poem the other day that really stood out in the Auburn Circle, a student and faculty semesterly art and literature magazine in which I submitted a piece of my own work for this Fall semester’s issue. I submitted Fading Away, an essay which I wrote 3 years ago. Anyways, here’s the poem:
I wanna be a poemThis poem really struck a chord in me (for lack of a better phrase). It wasn't the meaning of the poem or anything about what it represents, but the thing that got to me was the beauty of it. The ART itself. The art wanted me to become a better writer. The poem made me want to write the art. It helped awaken the lost artist in me. The artist that I used to be, or at least wanted to be.
I wanna slice circles
around my neck so deep
that you feel me bleed,
taste the metallic, and tear
your shirt into pieces
to save me
I wanna spit scriptures
that move you from the back
to the front pew
kicking up your heels
I wanna give multiple
mental orgasms to men,
women, and in-betweens,
until each of them forgets
what gender means
I wanna dance a jig, yes
as in jigaboo,
proud that being me means
not being you
I wanna recreate
that visceral quake you make when
your ‘favorite’ uncle slithers
between your sheets, beyond the moon’s glow,
I wanna be a crack pipe,
your hand, and the rock that
lulls you to sleep and sends you
into your mother’s purse
I wanna be bass lines that turn
back flips, mix with sly
metaphors and signifying quips.
I wanna be eye rolling,
switch finding, closet praying,
fatherless birthday-ing, hand game
To view the poem and other great works of literature and art in .pdf format go here: The Auburn Circle, Spring 2005, Volume 31, Issue 2.