These Legs Were Made to Stand

Hello there, this fine--though, here in Chicago, it's chilly and rainy--afternoon. I have yet to build up my confidence enough to write some political commentary, which is sad for everyone. However, my confidence in my other writing abilities isn't so lack-luster. I have said recently in my LiveJournal--my personal blog, if you will--that I am bad at being poor. This is true, I can't budget myself for shit. I have never had to, to be fair, I've always been able to buy what I've needed, even while my mother whined about spending the money. But, nowadays, that is getting less and less true, and I am becoming more and more concerned with my own abilities to survive. Basically, I think I'm going to run myself into the ground, because I'm a bad saver and an even worse budget-buyer. This really isn't your problem--I know what you're thinking--but, I am going to make it your problem by making it a professional problem. Do you see where I am going with this?

I have been writing poetry for about five years now--since September 11, 2001. The first few years I wasn't any good, but I have worked hard to develop myself as a poet, and I think I have managed to birth a few decent pieces. That being said, as well as my declaration of difficulties being poor, I think it's time I try to publish.

I have said this a few times, "I am going to publish this year", but I think it really is time it happened. I need to make a name for myself, I need to take the steps toward professionalism, and I need the extra cash.

So, without much more ado...I am going to post five or so pieces that I think are moderately worthy of publishing. All I want from you is to read these pieces and comment. Tell me where I need work, tell me what I should submit, tell me how I am doing, just tell me generally what you think.

I'll say thank you now, and you can decide if you are worthy.

The poetry follows in no particular order, other than alphabetical.

Listening
©RachelC

You have nothing to say.
You stand above me,
you watch as I move
and as I smile at the things
I believe only we will get;
but you never smile
and that's all I ever wanted.

I don't think about other things.
I don't wonder about global
warming, or the tilt of the axis,
or how gravity keeps us all

down. Below the horizon,
that's where my mind wanders,
and I like to believe yours is
there, among the deep-thinkers.
That's what we are, but you
don't confirm it, as you watch
the traffic pass by and sip
your coffee, soy and no cream.

You have nothing to say, and
I can't stop talking; about my
hair, or the way my clothes rest
on my hips. And I smile at those
things I believe only we get.
The way the stars move, the
way a bird feeds her chicks,
the way drivers always honk
when they think someone is

listening; I'm listening. I'm
waiting to hear you speak.

March 2, 2005


Moments with China
©RachelC

She’s really very lovely,
sipping tea that’s turned red
with the color of flavoring.
Yet no one responds, to the quiet
motions of her lips, over the edge
of the cup, over the liquid, hot
and bitter, and bland
like the water beneath the bag.

She has a smile, with steam
accenting the curves of her lips,
rising from the basin of the china.
And yellowed teeth seem whitened
under tainted lips—
traces and droplets left standing
‘til they’re chilled.

She is really very calming, to
a man who wanders aimlessly past
the porch on which she sits—
he’s headed, perhaps, home,
to his wife and to his children,
but seems himself lost in
the precipice of stairs
leading to her station.

He himself is a man of high
quality, a man who values much
greater things than moments with china.
Yet, he wanders within himself,
the way a man would if he were
lonely.

And here he finds her, lovely,
a door of freedom, on a wooden
porch, a chance for himself
to escape. She is, in fact, that lovely,
to allow a man to imagine her
as if he could marry her the way
she is as he first finds her. Lovely,
alone, pondering the flavoring
of a particular cup of tea.

May 1, 2006


(The) Dematerializing (of) Bonnie
©RachelC

She catches her hair in a brush every
morning, and watches strands she’ll miss
float to her feet, where they may hang
for the rest of the day, not letting go yet.
She’ll pick them off, one by one, and watch them drift
away to catch on to someone else, be drug along
to see sights they were never meant to see,
and hear things she would have never said.

She keeps her lips closed throughout the day,
never speaking unless asked, avoiding eye
contact with pretty faces, pretty mouths
saying words she’s heard in movies, and once
from my father. She imagines they go home and
see their parents fighting, beating, screaming, and
crying, but they sit with their families at dinner tables,
study, read, play with little brothers.
From the way they speak, shouldn’t someone be
hurting them? From the way they yell,
shouldn’t someone be yelling back?

The world has engulfed its morals around material
items, and Bonnie has too. She still relies on childhood
fantasies, that family is always what it appears on
the outside looking in, but I’ve realized that family
is not the street we live on, the car we drive, the home
we reside, and all the quiet girls, who do well in school,
who are obedient and respectful, and who never
say more than what is seemingly appropriate,
are always the broken ones.

January 17, 2006

Toes

©RachelC

I envelop myself in sand

and I hope it could swallow me,

but I can’t dig deep enough

and the suffocation is stifled.

I can see my toes above the surface

wiggling with spasm to release

themselves from the weight

I’ve taken on.

And when I pull myself from the

grasp of beach and tide, my toes

remain uncovered, unblemished,

unadorned with the grains that seep

into the crevices of my body

and weaken my breath.

It is they who carry me

to the bathhouse to find a

shower. It is they who take me

to the wardrobe where I dress.

It is they who create my movement

and force me forward with inch-steps,

twitches, convincing me with wiggles

that I should continue further.

I miss the sand some days,

the feeling of my toes above the surface;

for when I stand upright

the weight of all my burdens

falls to my toes.

May 12, 2005

Wailing Wall

©RachelC

Tutor my steps and varying motions

as I walk down the hall where

you lived for three years, sleeping

outside my door, and crying out

in the night for some reassurance—

rescuing from the daily catastrophe.

With wood and wall between us I

stood, a failure to your needs.

Tutor my lips as I use them to speak,

you can’t stay here any longer, and

I can’t imagine them when you’re gone.

You crawled to my couch, rested

your head on my pillows, and sang

lullabies to someone who already

slept, just two feet away, plywood

and plaster between ears and your voice.

Tutor my disapproving tongue, though

it never argues anymore. It rests against

my palate and forfeits to sweet words, sticky

with affection, creamy with embrace, flowing

between my lips, over taste and smell, and

deep inside my chest to breathe in, breathe

out. I crawl between your sheets, I settle

upon your body, still stiff from hardwood

floors and matted carpet. I carry inside me

everything you left from before, from again.

I carry inside me and hope for the chance

to throw it back, before my floors become

your bedspread, before my approach

becomes your moment to teach me why to

wail again.

August 13, 2005


And that is that....

We Won't Need Legs to Stand