how do I love thee?

Let me (briefly) count the ways…

My frowning face entered this world in the month of October. We’ve been lovers since then.

I spend many evenings listening to the symphony of my feet pressing down on an endless sea of crunchy leaves in October. And I don’t feel like I’m hurting them, either. They live to fall, don’t they?

I can count every star in the evening sky in October, owing to that vivid, clear sky that seems inches away from my upturned head.

There’s a weird romantic electricity that roams around the atmosphere in October. It makes you want to grab someone and cuddle while you watch the slow setting of the autumn sun. (This, dear friends, will never happen–I don’t think “because it’s October” will suffice when said random stranger has me arrested for grabbing him and forcing him to cuddle.)

Well said.

And So It Goes.

We bid goodbye to summer.

We bid goodbye to 31WriteNow, pleased that the effort to blog all 31 days of August was successful. (Yay!) We also hope that blogging everyday will become a second nature thing and not just in response to a challenge. Baby steps.

We bid goodbye to long days and long nights (yes, I’m aware that meteorological summer doesn’t end until mid-September, but work with me, people).

We bid goodbye to empty, non school-is-in session streets. No traffic was good while it lasted, huh?

We bid goodbye.

A tear for summer.

But we await you, Autumn! (See the countdown below.)

a friendly reminder…

That face.

Those eyes.

That stare.

That talent.

Kitten Heel Marvel loves Paul Newman. In case you forgot.

sleep come free me.

I’d really like to get that sleep, though. Please and thank you, whoever you are that has me awake.

Crazy in Love.

What is it about oak-lined streets that make me so dizzy and crazy in love?

Why do I have visions of wearing an antebellum dress and strolling down one of these long, gorgeous paths with a beau named Shelby or Logan or…Beau?

During my trip to Savannah, I gazed down streets like these and nearly squealed from the romance and mystery of it all.

Sigh. Happy Friday, ya’ll.

American Sonnet.

American Sonnet
Billy Collins

We do not speak like Petrarch or wear a hat like Spenser
and it is not fourteen lines
like furrows in a small, carefully plowed field

but the picture postcard, a poem on vacation,
that forces us to sing our songs in little rooms
or pour our sentiments into measuring cups.

We write on the back of a waterfall or lake,
adding to the view a caption as conventional
as an Elizabethan woman’s heliocentric eyes.

We locate an adjective for the weather.
We announce that we are having a wonderful time.
We express the wish that you were here

and hide the wish that we were where you are,
walking back from the mailbox, your head lowered
as you read and turn the thin message in your hands.

A slice of this place, a length of white beach,
a piazza or carved spires of a cathedral
will pierce the familiar place where you remain,

and you will toss on the table this reversible display:
a few square inches of where we have strayed
and a compression of what we feel.

I went to the woods.

The Summer Wind.

Here’s the truth: I love summer.

You expected something deeper and scandalous, I know. Well, my summer truth is slightly scandalous because every summer, without fail, I engage in the most eternal complaints about the season. I complain about the heat, the mosquitoes, the heat, the heat, and the heat. And while those things are truly worth complaining about–seriously, I think I’m dating these mosquitoes, they’re that devoted to me–the simple truth is that I live for this time of year. (Third behind fall and spring, of course.)

A few reasons why. Here come the bullets:

•The long days. I can’t emphasize my love affair with summer’s long days. In between slapping away the efforts of my greedy mosquito boyfriends, I tend to sit outside with a dreamy smile on my face, gazing at the bright-at-9pm atmosphere.

•My inner child. Growing up, summers meant field trips to the local library with my Sissy; spending endless days lounging around the air-conditioned house reading said books; acting like fools with the rest of my crazy sibs; popsicles; more popsicles; family trips; laughter. I can’t help but return to those sweet times in my mind and memory when summer arrives.

•My grown up, adult self. Yeah, I have to drive. And there’s nothing sweeter than mostly traffic-free morning commutes without school buses and all the kiddies on the roads. Just saying. You know you love it, too.

•The beach/traveling/vacations. Enough said, huh? Summer was made for those things, and I try to take advantage of all of them this time of year.

So one wonders why I spend more time complaining about summer instead of talking about how much I love it? Consistency. I’m all about consistency.

What’s your favorite season and why?

what’s the buzz, tell me what’s a-happenin’…

Have I mentioned that I stalk all things musical theatre? The title is a reference to one of my favorite jams from Jesus Christ Superstar. Anyway, Happy Friday to you, and you, and you. Following is the buzz on yours truly, what’s been happenin’ (and very entertainment-y, as you’ll see):

• NaPoWriMo was a complete success. Woo hoo! Thanks to all who read my work, commented, followed this blog, etc., in the month of April. I’m even more in love with poetry, if that’s humanly possible, and we’re registered at the local library if you want to get us anything. (Way to wrangle a metaphor, no?) In general, I learned that I really can write every day, if I put my mind to it. I suppose all that raucous laughter at a fellow writer who once told me he gets up at 5am every morning to write was unwarranted, huh? Sorry.
• The summer movie season is starting and I’m trying not to drool with excitement. Beginning with this film, starring an actor that I’ve adored since antiquity (already bought my ticket for tomorrow, yeah!), I intend on fully taking advantage of this time of year. After IM3, I wait with bated breath for The Great Gatsby, Star Trek Into Darkness, Man of Steel, etc., etc. Reviews will be provided, naturally. Did you know about my lifelong obsession fascination with all things comic book, sci-fi, and general popcorn fun? Hey, I may prefer a literary adaptation or a British accent in film, but I still gets my fun on. But we never talk about that stuff on here because, well, I’d rather talk about other things. But it’s Friday, so have at it, Kitten Heel Marvel.
• Anyone heard of Netflix? When I’m not working, or taking care of life, or eating, or sleeping, or stalking summer movies or musical theatre or Robert Downey, Jr., I’m glued to the old iPad, watching everything from Bollywood films to Murder, She Wrote as they stream on Netflix. Sigh. I would complain about the utter waste of time, but…I love it.

This last thing going on in my life is a bit beyond bullets and a quick summary. You remember this. Well, things got kind of interesting. As in the quiet, almost nonchalant way I was approaching my feelings about this individual didn’t necessarily change, but I was talking about him a lot. A lot. Talking about him turned into wondering whether he shared my feelings, which turned into he obviously shared my feelings, based on his peripheral staring of me, which turned into a much-needed intervention from my concerned best friend after listening to my ramblings about this guy. I lost my marbles a bit. Side-eyed staring (which seriously happened like two times) and other non-events are not indicators of mutual interest. In the end, I’m just grateful for the tough love dispensed by my bestie. Said tough love even inspired me to write an essay, which I submitted here for consideration. I’ll provide updates should it be published. Anyway, crushes are ok, but I want more and will hold out for just that.

Onwards, and bon weekend!

warsan shire.

Because it’s Friday, and because I love sharing poetry that plays volleyball with my little heart:

http://warsanshire.tumblr.com

This is Warsan Shire. Warsan is a poet, a linguist, a talent, a light, a mirror to almost everything you and I have experienced and will yet experience in life. My friend and I trade her poems like baseball cards. A few of her works are below. Lastly, go to her Tumblr, please. Buy her book. Fall in love with her.

34 excuses for why we failed at love.

1. I’m lonely so I do lonely things.

2. Loving you was like going to war, I never came back the same.
3. You hate women, just like your father and his father, so it runs in your blood.
4. I was wandering the derelict car park of your heart looking for a ride home.
5. You’re a ghost town I’m too patriotic to leave.
6. I stay because you’re the beginning of the dream I want to remember.
7. I didn’t call him back because he likes his girls voiceless.
8. It’s not that he’s wants to be a liar, it’s just that he doesn’t know the truth.
9. I couldn’t love you, you were a small war.
10. We covered the smell of loss with jokes.
11. I didn’t want to fail at love like our parents.
12. You made the nomad in me build a house and stay.
13. I’m not a dog.
14. We were trying to prove our blood wrong.
15. I was still lonely so I did even lonelier things.
16. Yes, I’m insecure, but so was my mother and her mother.
17. No, he loves me he just makes me cry a lot.
18. He knows all of my secrets and still wants to kiss me.
19. You were too cruel to love for a long time.
20. It just didn’t work out.
21. My dad walked out one afternoon and never came back.
22. I can’t sleep because I can still taste him in my mouth.
23. I cut him out at the root , he was my favourite tree, rotting, threatening the foundations of my home.
24. The women in my family die waiting.
25. Because I didn’t want to die waiting for you.
26. I had to leave, I felt lonely when he held me.
27. You’re the song I rewind until I know all the words and I feel sick.
28. He sent me a text that said ‘I love you so bad’
29. His heart wasn’t as beautiful as his smile.
30. We emotionally manipulated one another until we thought it was love.
31. Forgive me, I was lonely so I chose you.
32. I’m a lover without a lover
33. I’m lovely and lonely.
34. I belong deeply to myself.

 

inheritance

Where did you get those big eyes?

My mother.

And where did you get those lips?

My mother.

And the loneliness?

My mother.

And that broken heart?

My mother.

And the absence, where did you get that?

My father.

i’m not sad

but the boys who are looking for sad girls always find me. i’m not a girl anymore and i’m not sad anymore. you want me to be a tragic backdrop so that you can appear to be illuminated, so that people can say ‘wow, isn’t he so terribly brave to love a girl who is so obviously sad?’ you think i’ll be the dark sky so you can be the star? i’ll swallow you whole.

the craft

the first line of a poem should usher you in,

a door half open,

a warm glow,

an empty seat.

the last line should punch you in the stomach.