Category Archives: self-portrait

Patchwork Poem #1 ala Anne Sexton

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Since You Ask, Most Days I Can Not Remember

P
I was wrapped in black
my hair rising like smoke from the car window
and I beat down the psalms
………………….(notice how he has numbered the blue veins)
and I undid the buttons
………………….(like carpenters they want to know which tools)
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.

p
And then you called me princess.

p

Climb her like a monument, step after step
…………………..(he is bulding a city, a city of flesh)
then the almost unnameable lust returns
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss.

p

This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.

p

And then you crowned me–
fireworks in the dull middle of February–
face flushed with a song and their little sleep,
and as real as a cast-iron pot–
the bones, the confusions.

p
You undid me and then
I stood up in my gold skin.

…………………..((From the glory of boards he has built me up).
As for me, I am a watercolor,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.

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So this is a patchwork poem for the “Fall in Love With a Poet” mini-challenge at Read Write Poem.  The lines are taken from four Anne Sexton poems: Mr. MineUsWanting to Die; and For My Lover, Returning to His Wife.

There is a theme here in these poems, as well as in the lines I have chosen.  I just need to figure out what it is, spend some more time with Anne…

Self-Portrait with Stick of Butter (poem 5 of 365)

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Soft as an oil crayon
slide across the curve of your forehead.

Do not use for cooking
baking or basting.

Fresh-scented girl,
name your stick
and wish it well.

Light the tip of your butter
with flame from a rusted gas stove
…………..inhale the memory of popcorn in a pan,
thread-bare movie house carpet
roaming fingers not quite long
enough to wrap a steering wheel
…………..curl around
a bottle of beer.

Lick sweet and salty
from lips you can not see.

Straighten your shirt
(you do not wear skirts)
Face the mirror once again.

Soft as an oil crayon
slide beneath the curve of your chin.

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Here’s the thing about writing every day, about coming to the page no matter if you feel uninspired, rushed, tired, un-caffeinated: something will emerge. It might not be great. It might not make sense. It might not be good until you work with it for days/weeks/months, until you combine it with another poem, or until you leave it on the altar of “well, at least I tried,” and move on.

But you have a bunch of words in the shape of a poem, and that’s progress, baby! Poem-gress!