Ordinary Genius 1

A few months ago, I picked up Kim Addonizio's Ordinary Genius. It's a series of discussions on poetry, awareness, and writing. I was writing poetry long before I ever had a pencil or paintbrush in my hand. The earliest poems were typical teenaged drivel about love and about how unfair life seemed to be. (Visit Kim Addonizio and check out her books here.)


There were a few jewels. I read one about a friend who died from cocaine overdose at a poetry reading when I was 18 or so, and it went over well with the audience. 


But when poetry, and fiction writing comes into the fore, my paintings and drawings fall back. And visa versa. I can only create so much. 


I'm in the middle of painting a Shoebill, and alternately thinking he's finished and think I should paint over him and start over. And that was when I found myself picking up Addonizio's book.


The first few chapters were absorbed in a flash, and I found myself itching to write poetry. The last time that I wrote poetry, we had just come home from visiting my mother, who has been slowly fading and who had been sick. I had to do something with those feelings of helplessness and pain. One of my favorite pieces came from that period. 

Grey Leather (2011) by ~Neheti I wrap my arms around this leather sack The bones click beneath the embrace Blades of the shoulders carving me open The grey sack smiles with grey eyes That used to be black as night And I peel away afraid, Heartbroken. I wrap my arms around this leather sack of wasted flesh and lengthy years and shards of femur and ulna scrape leaving scars of pink and drops of blood The grey sack shifts against me worn down by time and poverty. overcome, I want to flee to deny what this has become. I wrap my arms around this leather sack the smell of old cigarettes and rot fills my nose with nausea The jaw bones clack and snap with lazy abandon So heavy in my heart My tears get swallowed back and I fear I hear my mother's voice.

I'm sure that it needs further refining, and I've reworked it a few times since. 


But now, now I'm writing purely for enjoyment, as opposed to catharsis. There's certainly some pain in some of what has come out, but there's also humor, and joy. 

On Turning 99

No one will care if a careless fuck slips from my toothless mouth.

I'll still dance and sing and rant and

bring my best flirtations

to make my beloved smile. 

I'll lift my shirt

and remind him how much

we made each other

smile

and

laugh

and

love.

In my chair, I'll rule my roost with impunity (but fairly)

run off those young'uns in their sixties and seventies

unless they're cute.

I'll sing along in spit of my deafness

and embarrass my nieces and nephews. 

No one will know what to do with me

as I stomp and shimmy

my way to the end. 

I'll be glorious

and beautiful

right to that mysterious

five seconds after

my beloved finds his doom

and I follow.

It needs a smidge of edits, but it's not a bad start. It made my husband smile, and made us both tear up, which is exactly what I was going for. 

(I'm planning on continuing to share some of these poems as I go, so I guess this is a whole new blog type. ;) )