Lamest Post Ever

Have been trying to talk myself out of writing this post, but obviously I lost out to myself. Specifically, I promised myself I would not ever use this blog to publish stupid works of fiction/poetry or angsty diatribes on how awful my life is i.e. no emo shit. Except then I remembered I’d already done the poetry thing: whoops and whoops. So whatever, this is a poetry post, deal with it.

When I was a kid growing up, my life’s amibition was to be a writer. I really wanted people’s approval of my ‘work’, and I secretly harboured fantasies of publishing a novel. However, I was also dimly aware that my ideas were generally less than inspired, and that I simply didn’t have enough talent to execute anything really decent. Which depressed me to no end. Especially as I have a friend who writes really beautifully (you know who you are, you should write more).

Anyway, I recently came across an old notebook I’d kept for a poetry class a couple of years ago- and it was mostly filled with cringeworthy stuff. This is probably because a week before I had to hand my portfolio in, I sat myself down and tried to write things of great gravitas and profundity, which is a problem because my brain naturally leans toward the frivolous… and you could tell.

Don’t get confused, this was actually quite a funny moment, I was really ok with the badness of my poetry. I was no longer bothered by the shitness of my work, because in the last few years I had 1) come to understand that I don’t have much talent, and more importantly 2) I was ok with being bad. I had in effect, given up my aspirations to be a writer.

Somehow, in the last few years I’ve managed to grow up, come to terms with the fact that I may be passably ok as a writer, but I’m nothing out of the ordinary, nor am I driven or inspired enough to sustain any focus anyway. I lack the necessary levels of finesse, not to mention stuff like originality and determination.

This isn’t false modesty or a depressing “I’m so shit moment”. I think this is a really nice grown up moment, where I’m comfortable enough to say, “I accept my weaknesses, no drama”.

Thus, I am sharing this lovely moment on my blog (also now I can throw my book away with no qualms):

In honour of me accepting the unlikeliness of me becoming a writer in any capacity, I’m posting a few poems I came across that didn’t completely bring gigantic waves of embarrasment. They’re still pretty average (don’t let me convince you otherwise), but I actually remember the purpose of these, and I respect that they kind of turned out like I wanted- thus I think I’d regret it if I got rid of them. Feel free not to comment guys.

Family Hands

I

your soft hands

have wiped away

a story mother

 

mine are rough

from washing dishes

without gloves

 

I watch your nightly rituals;

cream, slathered on hands,

on feet, on face

 

take away the evidence

of factories, of calluses from pushing mops

in other people’s homes

 

II

every so often

we dissect our faces, our bodies

limb by limb, a ritual of love

 

we end placing our hands

palm to palm

a return of ourselves to you

 

III

our left hands stretch wider than our right

banging out tenths

in major keys

 

yearning for new life

away from watermelon rinds

and a lived out immigrant history

 

IV

in the kitchen

we speak in haiku

fingers in the air counting syllables

 

the language of the young ones,

the siblings

and the elders

 

Visible Excess

 

Artists in good form will

offer pain on exquisite platters

ready for carving.

Bodies excrete art

I’m told, just to breathe.

 

Elsewhere, shedded bulbous frames

hover righteously over newly svelte forms

that lie unconsumed-

bloated, we don’t like the skinny ones.

 

Is it (then): invsible excess

for stripped back souls

a gluttony of reguritation

assimilated, romanticized-

It is: damn near aspirational.

 

But, without them what have we got

if not envy and so called

middle class anxieties

lying thin, dying, passionless-

on the bathos express,

so easy to spit upon

make our fetish.

 

Which is why most days, gluttony is enough for us.

After all, nothing is more dramatic

than blood seeping through your underwear

expected. As if this were more than normal.

 

and lastly, my personal favourite, because it still makes me laugh:

 

Fiction

 

Your voice signals the

appeasement parade come

early, weary on this play

 

on hurt, you say

but love

is worth being cut for

 

except neither you nor I

tell what’s hiding.

so we continue bruised

 

batting ourselves against

last year’s broken plates and

angry words,

 

but bluntly,

 

tearing into weaknesses-

and mid bite, I think

somewhere,

 

this must be fiction

with critics declaring

decisively

 

‘overwrought,

overdramatic,

overall… dull’.