My activity of choice these days is physical decluttering, which often leads to mental cluttering. I parse through boxes with an unsentimental glint, tossing 70% of what I come across. Lots of papers covered in scribbles of writing from back when longhand was my preferred method of communication: Unfinished stories, two unfinished chick lit novels, drafts of essays and letters, errant journal entries, to-do lists, quotes from books and songs, and a veritable slew of bad poetry.
Poetry that is so bad that it deserves to be blogged before it heads to the recycling bin. The irony is, if I were trying to write bad poetry, it wouldn’t be nearly as bad as the following three poems that I penned nearly 10 years ago, because that cringing sincerity endemic to bad poetry would be missing. Today, I have no shame!
“Beth”
Matured intensity of a city dweller.
Urban foraging, empty aspiration.
Indulge her and taste the city:
Concrete and butts, tucked
under your tongue like a pill.
“The Pleasure of Bread”
Suppose I talk about the pleasure of bread:
The mutual love when mouth and food are wed,
The smell and taste of giving life,
the grainy flesh yields to a knife.
Have you had the pleasure of my bread?
“(Un)titled”
In the morning it’s instant coffee and hard-boiled eggs.
His index finger rubs salt over the yielding whites,
and he watches me eat and sip. He looks here and there
For things that may not be there.
We know to go East, to ignore the ripe fruits, and
To hide our faces when the birds call.
Walking through the hallowed corridors:
We’re looking for the kind of comfort
that only comes after extreme discomfort.
Our sanity long since plucked, our
eyes blink away dirt and tears, searching
for a place to repose.
