Tag: poem

writing

Complete Body of Work

Posted on by littleREDelf

I spent a lot of time today.
I put on stockings
. . . . . . and I never do that
And when I laid myself down on that long white canvas,
she traced my body
in all the fine details I liked and admitted
and those I could not see.

And we laughed and remarked
all those points in between where my fingers jagged
and how much I liked the empty slopes to be touched.
and how the pencil had a way of making points and triangles
where there were none.

The first time I tried this exercise
was in the 3rd grade.
There was no ginger navigation,
there were no points no hips no breasts to avoid.
And Timmy, did a fine job, and didn’t make my head too big.
Timmy with a beautiful brown birthmark
on the side of his cheek.
I called it Jupiter’s spot once.
He blushed and took it as a compliment.

When my outline was finished, I rolled it out
and hung it on the wall
And I began to affix things to it.
Scraps of poetry, beer caps, pictures,
Miniature snapshot flashbulb memoirs,
Tiny swatches of time I inhabited
Meaningful, in all probability,
only to myself.

Once my body was full of all that I was
I hung it on the wall at school for all to see.
I existed for a time in two places.
And it was disconcerting to see me everyday like that,
People looking at those scattered pieces of me,
unraveling me,
knowing me.
I felt naked and under scrutiny,
but I grew comfortable.

And that one thoughtless boy,
One of a string of so many like him,
I caught him pressing my profile
Waiting for a class,
I had to ask him, If he wouldn’t mind so much as to move
. . . . . . .
I’d rather he read me,
than lean on me.

writing

taste

Posted on by littleREDelf

You know yourself to be wise,
but it is a strange thing to resist:
to draw her up close,
to peel her back, a red skinned mango
the nectar at your mouth – stingy sweet.
fruit flesh untasted.
it is a strange thing to resist:
to be good and singular and granular
a quick drawing of sugar
but briefly . . .
like tea with honey.

He says, “You are awake.
to those waking, you are irresistable.
to those sleeping, you are beyond understanding.”
to be the Dream Brother,
or the Daughter of Stones.
seven over and over again . . .
knowing the joining would be
perhaps the missing voice
within the voice.
but they all come with songs
they hear you and join in
at all the right echoes.
“You are awake.”

We know where we belong
in those fleeting drams of time,
we take the hands, tighten down like locks
and know what it is to never forever BE.
To be tasty and know how you taste.
Turn those circles outward now,
ripples, vibrations in the waterglass
be sacred at every moment
throwing hands into a fire that understands.
Breathing into red connections —
tables are set for these strange gatherings,
might you . . .
shamelessly partake
of mangos and tea with honey.

Might you?

~ Andrea E. Janda

writing

Diary of a Lazy Sunday

Posted on by littleREDelf

i went to bed as the sky was slipping open,
a silver blade across a dark canvas
the sun – a dusky, milk-white pearl,
a burnished tin coin
and the patter of rain.

i woke up late afternoon
a warm ivory cocoon
decided not to burst wings
but lay still for 2 hours
assembling dream collages
rewinding conversations
re-writing myself
two paperweight cats
held me warm and fast.

i had explained to him
that waking up is like being born
sometimes i come out screaming
sometimes i need more pushing
sometimes i cry . . .

i called three friends
from under the blanket-tent
with sleep and recline in my voice
and they asked if i were ok
and i declared softly
with a honeyed smile in my voice
that i was
indeed
fine.

in a slip of black satin
i padded the stairs, cats in tow
and made eggs and pancakes
for dinner
with peanut butter and toast
and drank orange juice slowly
marveling how far it had come
to be here now.

how far would I have to travel
to move this slow every day
in a purposeful dreamstate
consciously delicate
instinctually incoherent
to share a wishbone prize
while never having broken
a thing.

~ Andrea E. Janda

holidays, travel, writing

shiny, used, temperate blues

Posted on by littleREDelf

upon leaving Manhattan
the Christmas tree at the curb
wearing tinsel like a greenstick girl
who is showing her silvery gray
and beside it after midnite
a Champagne bucket.

the Holidays are over . . .
and now the winter
truly begins.

but I will find myself
in Tucson in 4 days,
stomping through the desert
sweating & trying to make sand
and cactus flower
visually appealing.

~ Andrea E. Janda

Uncategorized

wanderlust

Posted on by littleREDelf

i don’t want to sleep anymore today
i don’t want to rest my thoughts
or save my strength
i just want to wander
and lust after nothing.

And so i did, and decided not to work
and that 6 page paper
on the disorder of my choice
is going to have to fucking wait
too.

For the world
is green but muted
and i’ve forgotten
to listen.

Cabbage butterflies
and curled yellow leaves
and the red rusted thresher
waits in the field.
While the last part of pink
and the best part of brown
go off dying together
in a dirty marriage.

The crows line the wires
and the songs are like taunting
a cow’s tail swtiches
and hits the tree bark fence
and they eye me carefully
and neither one of us
is brave enough
to charge barb wire.

But we wander
and we lust
and we trust
that all things live
and die quietly.

i plan on making some noise about it.

myth, nature, weather

Sweet September

Posted on by littleREDelf

There is this little house on the corner
where an old couple lives.
They tend to a rather beautiful garden
with fountains and a pond and flowerbeds
and lilac brush and such.
They sit there at a tiny card table
with a plastic flower drapecloth over it
and a cold sweaty iced-tea pitcher between them.
He reads the paper and glances up occasionally
while she watches the people
and the cars with people in them go by.
They look like old but hopeful Kool-Aid salesmen
of long ago summers.

hot and fluttery summertime
well – you can leave now
and so can your crashing storms
that bring the trees down
and light up my room at night
when i am dreaming of crunching leaves
beneath my boots . . .

i am SUCH a sweater grrrrl of gray and black and red and brown and tawny and earthy personable colors and depth. I cannot wait for Autumn and leaves and hot donuts and cider and pumpkins and cocoa and yes those boots especially that scrunch into the earth. Warm clothes and cool breeze.

i feel the shift and the cycle and the time for reflection and transformation, though i try to busy myself in the colors and the wonder of this change. i write better, i think deeper, i feel warmer, i concentrate on goals, i see things clearer.

September is my favorite. 9th month. 9 the number of completion in a cycle. 9 like magic and like cat tails and incantations. SEPT- for seven and -EMBER for fire. September used to be the 7th month in the old calendric cycle. And September has the 23rd, the first day of the Fall Equinox. Yummy — my spirit says bring it on. I am washing sweaters already.

who wants to rake leaves?
tsh –
i want to bed down in them
and wear them in my hair.