Tag Archives: poetry

A dash of strength for the solstice.

This Pipeline thing is amazing.

On the one hand, it’s alot of work. It’s not overwhelming work…it’s just a little bit more concentrated than the regular school year for me, and it’s not an unreasonable amount…but it does take focus. Every extra moment I have is spent on the work. It’s easier because Rob is studying for the bar, so we don’t bump into each other too much. It’s also an amazing group of people. I really like everyone…I mean EVERYONE, which if you know me almost never happens. (I get along with everyone, but for the most part I’m probably pretty pessimistic about the asshole ratio in general. I just don’t want to fight with them all the time.) I keep feeling like I’m never going to see these people after Pipeline is over. There’s these monthly colloquia things, but who’s going to have time to catch up with everyone in that short time period? It makes me feel like every moment spent there with every person is precious. I wish I could introduce them to most of you guys…you would love them. All amazingly intelligent and entertaining and witty and just good people.

On the other hand, there is this amazingly intimidating thing going on. Not with the people, mind you. I suppose it COULD be about the people if they weren’t so nice, but I can’t shake this feeling that we’re really all stuck in this together, and I’m not competing with them any more than I’m competing with someone else who buys a Lotto ticket. The thing that’s so intimidating is just GETTING INTO GRAD SCHOOL. There’s a 5 or 10 percent acceptance rate. (which of course, translates to a 90 or 95 percent rejection rate). Theres’ GPA’s and GRE’S, (not to mention the PSYCH GRE, which is a separate test) plus work experience, lab experience, getting published (some people manage to do that before graduate school) presentations, personal statements, letters of recommendation, statements of purpose, (and of course, tailoring those things to your particular schools of choice) and NONE of those have anything really to do with Pipeline, except for they’re trying to hook us up so we do well in those things.

So today someone sees that they’ve posted our pictures in the display case. They’ve put the graduation sash around the pictures, and I look at them and I’m ready to cry.

I’m going to get a degree. I’m going to graduate college. It’s really going to happen. I mean, even if I don’t get into graduate school, I’m going to have a degree. I look at the sash, and the sash goes with the hat and the robes. This is, like, almost 30 years in the making. I so do not take this for granted.

So I was feeling weepy, and was looking for an old poetry piece I wanted to forward to someone about my tattoos to take my mind off of things. I was re-reading it, and it was far too personal to post here…but the last half of it really spoke to me, and gave me the strength and determination to finish this out, no matter how it goes.

= = = = =

I CHOOSE LIFE.

I choose strength and love,

power and pride,

and passion so deep it aches my bones.

I choose LIFE.

the joy of breathing and dancing,

of lovemaking and tears,

of sweat and blood and bone.

I CHOOSE Life.

Not having it like an afterthought.

I reach for that which makes me grow.

I strive for my own needs.

I,

myself alone,

CHOOSE,

an act of power,

of discernment,

of pre-meditated action,

I CHOOSE LIFE

and as I dance and run

and laugh and scream

and spin and drum

and worship

Life marks my dance with color and design

like living neon

like stripes on my skin

like sun on my scales

and I CHOOSE to let her.

Judge these marks all you like.

I choose Life, and these marks show

that Life Chooses Me.

= = = = =

Amen Sistah.

F.A.I.T.H.

Forgetting Appearances…I Trust Her.

The Gorgon

Written 5-4-91, so I was about 26. Soon after this I left the group, but not before I gave this to him, along with all the other poetry I had written for him, in a little handmade book. The front cover had a gorgon looking into a mirror with a bit of tinfoil to make the mirror part.

Ah, youth.

Anyway, after talking to Roland, I promised I’d find this for him and post it. I told him I was always trying to resolve my problems in metaphor, and I had written this whole piece with Marcelo as the Gorgon. “The GORGON?” he asked…he sounded surprised. I had forgotten that the connection wasn’t as obvious to other people as it was to me.

“Sure,” I said. “He smiled at people and it turned them to stone.”

There’s this fable, sometimes about a snake, sometimes about a scorpion, but in the end, the person that helps the creature becomes bitten and poisoned. The creature says in response, “This is what I am! What other gift did you expect from me?” and there are echoes of that here.

It’s not my best work or anything…but it was what I needed at the time. And it got me out.

= = = = = = =

One cannot look at the Gorgon
He will turn you to stone.

I cannot deny that dizzy feeling
As I drown in your eyes and your smile.
I am floundering, as if in quicksand
But this quicksand smells like musk and roses
Feels like a warm hot bath
Comforts and surrounds, as well as protects.

All my life I have been chasing men of living stone
Never noticing that I, too,
Was petrifying,
Solidifying,
Becoming stone myself.
With one look you do this to me
Smelling so good,
Feeling so wonderful,
As the numbness creeps up my arms
— reaching
Striving for my heart.
That’s the goal, isn’t it?
To make me hard like you?
To make me stone, like you?
Is that what you want?

Or is that all you know how to do?
What other gift did I expect from you?

I must fight the Gorgon, mustn’t I?
Or can I just walk away?
I do not wish to fight you
But you seem to follow me
Demanding I gaze in your eyes.

I have brought a mirror this time, my love.
I will see your true face,
And hopefully mine too.

I hold my shield up
Polished so brightly as to defend me
Reflective as a looking glass
And I see you coming for me.
I had thought you came for me because you loved me
But with this weapon of a new perspective
I see it as it really is.
You are alone and lonely with no one to speak with
(since you turn them all to stone so fast).
You do not love me.
You want someone who is attracted to you,
Someone to look in your brightly burning eyes
Long enough to tell you they love you.

I see you coming for me
With heated words and near-kisses
I had been hypnotized by the smile you gave
But I can see now that not even you know
It’s not a real smile.

I could make you smile real smiles
After I make love to you
And tickle you with my nose.
I could pull you close to me
–NO!
I must remember my quest!
With my mirror I must see through your glamour…

I do not see the monster I expected to see.
Only someone as beautiful
And as lost
As myself.

Shall I show you yourself, my love?
Will that set you free?
You enjoy this dramatic lifestyle
Of burning passion and anger
But my nervous system was not meant
For such stressful activity.

I have enjoyed this rush of emotion
Hitting me like a drug and knocking me to my knees
I have encouraged your attentions
And watched my fingers petrify with awe and wonder.
The transformation of this body is not yet complete
But what miracle is this
That can turn heart and soul to stone?
Is it all anger that does this?
Is it all pain?
I have asked for what I have gotten
(What other gift did I expect from you?)
But this time it will be different.
I need not kiss the Gorgon.
I need not turn to stone.
I had wanted to be hard,
Untouchable,
And I came to the Master to learn.
Why did I think I could touch you
when others could not?
With my mirror I see it was your smile
And the smell of musk and roses.
The same smile and smell you give to everyone.
The same enticingness that lures them all to you.
The same extra-specialness
That makes me not special at all.
I am only “next” to you.
I am never special.
I cannot be.

I will be special now, Love.

Not only will I not turn to stone
But I will leave you here
Without a kiss or a backward glance
Not even through my mirror.
I will be special to you for my gift to you.
A polished shield for a man who needs no protection.
Look at it and see yourself.
Perhaps, if you’re lucky,
You’ll crack.