Lifeblood

Again, I'm going to hold off on posting my thesis. That work is essentially complete, and these pieces I'm about to post are still fairly new and raw.

As you'll be able to tell, most of my poetry falls into the genre of "confessional poetry." It's written from a first-person perspective and is essentially creative nonfiction with line breaks. I also write creative nonfiction, but for certain subjects, I prefer poetry, because it forces me to be more concise and thoughtful with my words. I also write poetry that isn't confessional, but everyone I've asked to critique it says it isn't as strong (which is admittedly a bit discouraging because I find myself getting tired of the voice I've cultivated in my confessional work and would like to have another one that's equally strong).

In any case, I wrote these two poems on a train. I believe Harry Potter and Mickey Mouse were both conceived of on trains, too, so maybe there's something to be said for this method! I warn you, they're both pretty dark, but remember, writing is not a means I use to express all of me - I use it to bring parts of myself to the surface that I might not find otherwise. So, yes, they are dark, but they don't reflect my entire existence.

Guest of Honor

The first birthday present I ever received

was given to me at my surprise birthday party,

the first one ever thrown in my honor.

My mother hid in bed under a pile of white, starchy sheets,

my father on the cold, narrow windowsill of the hospital room.

My grandmother even made an appearance

because at surprise parties you never know

who’s going to show up.

The doctors and nurses were in on it too,

conspirators, complicit in an elaborate plot.

I was cut, most unceremoniously, from my mother’s womb,
twenty-eight days before my estimated time of arrival.

Surprise!

My father held me first; my mother, groggy and drug-dragged,

tried to look on but closed her eyes instead.

“Her name is Anna,” my father announced,

having formed a deep understanding with me

in the ninety seconds I’d been in his plastic gown-covered arms.

I weighed under four pounds.

“Her name is Anna,” he declared.

“There’s no question.”

I was the surprise guest of honor

and the gift I was given

was the world. It was mine to exist in.

I did not ask my parents for my name.

I did not ask them for life.

At a surprise party you never know

who’s going to show up,

what’s going to happen,

and you can’t ask the birthday girl

what presents she wants without spoiling the surprise.

I did not ask my parents for life,

but they gave it to me anyway.

Now I carry it with me everywhere I go,

staggering helplessly under its weight.

I'm particularly curious about the ending of this next one: Do you think it's stronger with or without the last two lines? I think I like it both ways, and one person thought I should maybe omit the last two lines, but I can't decide.

Tunnel Vision

At night I lie in bed

surrounded by darkness so pervasive

I can’t tell whether my eyes are closed or open.

When I was very young I pasted a cluster

of glow-in-the-dark stars on my bedroom ceiling.

Sometimes they still shine, but mostly

it’s too dark even to see them.

I don’t mind. I’d rather enjoy the darkness

uninterrupted.

But it’s those moments when my eyes are wide open

and I have to close them and open them again

just to know where I am

that fear settles deep inside me

and races through my entire body,

a fast train on a rickety track, pounding and pulsing.

That’s when I wish I could see the stars again

so I would have something to concentrate on

besides the images in front of my eyes

that don’t go away no matter how wide-open they are.

That’s when I don’t have anything to occupy my thoughts

except for the wide, unknown expanse of my life

and what could be waiting for me behind every corner.

My brain starts asking questions

faster than my heart can answer them:

how much longer will I be alone?

What if I’m always alone and no one ever loves me?

How old will I be when my parents die?

How old will I be when I die?

(I don’t want to die. I don’t want to live to die and I don’t want to live.)

Who am I? Why do I belong in this world?

What if I don’t belong in this world? What if I never do?

My breathing quickens and I search for the stars,

but they’ve long since shriveled into black holes and disappeared.

One night, years ago, I lay in the darkness and worried

that when I went to the train station to board my train home

from college, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself

from jumping onto the tracks in front of a pounding, pulsing train.

(I didn’t want to die. I simply didn’t want to live.)

I didn’t want to jump in front of a train. But what if I couldn’t do anything else?

Slowly, torturously, I came back into myself, forced my brain to listen

to my erratic heartbeat. I’m still here.

I went to the train station. I boarded the train.

I exhaled in relief and tried not to cry.

Now, I’m still here, still here

for some reason,

and as my vision adjusts to the darkness of the room,

I finally find my stars. I ask them,

“What if I never find the reason for why I’m still here?”

Then I fall asleep

and dream about flying until morning.

Like the Water

I originally thought I'd start out by posting my thesis, but then I thought that since this blog is called The Undersea Scrolls and my display name is The Mermaid Queen, I'd post a piece that explains that. This piece is about another part of me - the part of me that...well, I won't describe it. I'll just post it.

Like the Water

I

            As it currently stands, I have had one near-death experience – although I suppose all experiences are near-death experiences, because what is closer to death than life? I suppose it's more accurate to say that I have had only one moment in my life during which it was unclear whether I would continue living.

            I was on Cape Cod with my parents for a two-week vacation. I was eight years old and had swum in the ocean only once before. I wasn't a great swimmer, and my parents were hesitant to let me out in the water much deeper than my waist. It didn't matter, though, because as I had discovered, body surfing was more fun than swimming anyway. All I had to do was crouch or lie down in the sand just at the water's edge and wait for a wave. The wave would pick me up, retreat out to the ocean, and I would ride it back to shore. I had perfected the exercise to a science: I knew exactly where to lie so the wave would touch me at just the right moment. I knew when to close my eyes and mouth to avoid as much of the salty sting as I could. I could have stayed at the beach and body surfed for days; I could have lived there and been perfectly happy.

            That was probably what I was thinking when an unusually aggressive wave snatched me the one time I wasn't prepared and swept me out underneath it, further than I was allowed to go. Water poured into my nose and mouth and I was vaguely aware of my mother screaming and my father leaping from his beach chair and running to my aid. By the time he reached me, the wave had already spat me back out on the sand.

            “Are you okay?” my mother asked frantically as she rushed to my father's side.

            “I'm fine,” I choked, spitting out a mouthful of saltwater. “Why wouldn't I be?”

            “I was about to jump in and save you,” my father remarked.

            I shrugged. “There's sand in my hair.”

* * *

            The next day, after having showered twice and still not removed all the sand from my thick, curly hair, I wondered whether I really could just as easily have died. If I got swept out far enough, I figured, I would reach a tiny uninhabited island and live the rest of my life out there, or a friendly dolphin would come and rescue me and return me to my family. How odd that I, an abnormally anxious child, worried about the house spontaneously catching fire or a tornado ravaging my quiet New England neigborhood, was completely nonplussed about being swept out to sea.

II

             I am a mermaid in the frigid waters of the Arctic Circle where everything is blue and misty and the barking of the seals at night is the most beautiful music anyone has ever heard. I am everything I desire to be, living where I belong in the world. My tail is at once silver and all the colors of the rainbow and more; come April when the Northern Lights are brightest, it is a hundred shades of spectacular. My hair, long, wavy, and dark, clinks when I turned my head, full of seashells, and it smells constantly of salt and promise.

            My friends – the whales and selkies – and I spend our days sunning ourselves on the rocks, regaling each other with adventure stories and the kind of laughter that only comes from pure abandon.  When ships pass us, we call out to them – not luring them to destruction or oblivion, but simply reassuring them that there are still beautiful things in the world. Our voices, mixed with the cacaphony of the open sea and the distant hum of the sailors' vessels, float high above us and disappear into the clouds, a song of calmness and longing. At night we tuck ourselves under the moon and the clear midnight water, safe and as warm as we need to be.

* * *

            I am a real mermaid, not some doe-eyed cartoon with her breasts covered by scallop shells, pining desperately for some adventure she doesn't already have and a man she doesn't need. What I have is all I need, and if I never see land again I think I will be fine. No one can take anything from me; my strength and agility is mine alone and my voice belongs to the sea. I am so real, so achingly beautiful and real, that I couldn't possibly give away anything useful in the first place.

            I don't wish for love because the sea is full of passion; I don't fear anything because it is empty of fear and devastation. Below its surface I am untouchable, but I am always loved. In the water I am weightless and graceful, and I swim for hours without a destination. Always alone, never lonesome, I don't know where I am but I know I am home.

III

            The last time I went swimming, I was supervising a group of small children in an over-chlorinated swimming pool that smelled like chemicals and stale sweat. My hair was wet and bone-dry at the same time; it was damp to the touch but completely sucked dry of everything from the chlorine. Even below the water's surface, I could feel my skin start to flake, and I regretted leaving my tote bag with my lotion in it all the way back at childcare headquarters. There was hardly a dry spot on the ceramic tile deck, and the water that had once been cool and refreshing in the pool was now clammy and stagnant like that last dreg of water left in the bathtub after a shower.

            “No running!” my co-worker called to an enthusiastic little girl at the same time a six-year-old boy got ready to jump into the deep end.

            “Jump here,” I told him, motioning to the shallow end of the pool. “Let's stay in the shallow end.”

            I couldn't help but wonder if this was what animals in cages must feel like, remembering their natural habitats in an artificial substitute. Still, I was happy I got to swim at all, and for the ten seconds I spent underwater free of the echoey sounds of children and lifeguards, I pretended I was hearing the call of seagulls in the distance. I pretended that my swimsuit was a giant piece of seaweed wrapped around my body – undersea armor. I pretended I had a tail. I pretended I was me and that I was home.

* * *

            I remember the past and I dream of what I could be in my next life, and in the here and now, I'm resigned to stepping over puddles and imagining them to be a thousand feet deep with life and mystery spiraling inside them.

            I'm content to sprawl out on a towel on the beach, any beach, with sunscreen slathered on every exposed inch of my body and a book in my hands. I pretend to read, watching children and their families frolicking in the waves and remembering when I was that young and innocent. I wonder whether any of them will experience a moment like I did and whether they will carry it with them as I have. I pretend to read, letting my imagination venture to the mermaid homes that undoubtedly lie farther out than I can see, deeper underwater than I can swim.

            It's hot, and I stand in line at the beach café. If I can't be a mermaid yet, I can enjoy the flavor of vanilla ice cream, sweet and creamy, and the chocolate coating that sticks to my fingers like the sand to my feet. It melts quickly in the afternoon sun, and I eat the treat as fast as I can before it melts. It's refreshing and it cools my whole body, and the mess that remains on my hands and arms – and the little bit that's fallen onto my swimsuit – gives me an excuse to jump into the surf and clean myself off.

            I'm content, but I wonder all the same. Is my body simply a temporary holding place for my mermaid self, waiting for my current life to end so I can be released into my real home? Maybe I'm just  myself for now, a legged woman stuck in a holding pattern until it's time for me to be free.  How much longer will I have to wait?

The Patchwork Quilt Introduction, or Reasons why I Started a Blog

Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome!

I have to admit I was tempted just to jump in and start posting without an introductory entry, but in the end I felt it was important to give myself some context. Some of that will come in a later entry - you'll see what I mean when it comes - but in the meantime, here's a mini-lowdown about me:

My name is Anna. I currently live in Massachusetts and I graduated from Wells College in May with a bachelor of arts degree in English with a creative writing concentration and a minor in psychology. I mainly write poetry and creative nonfiction, though I've written a couple pieces of fiction I'm happy with, at least at the moment. I'm living with my family right now, which is both wonderful and difficult for many reasons. I'm applying to graduate school now so that next fall I can enroll in a program to get my MFA in creative writing. If I'm not accepted anywhere I apply - which is a real possibility - I don't have a plan B yet, so keep your fingers crossed!

My ultimate aspiration is to teach writing in a prison. Right now I'm working with an organization that does writing workshops for incarcerated women, and it's slowly changing my life. That's the cool thing about life-changing experiences - you never know when one is going to pop up, and every time you have one, you think something like "Okay, THIS is the Major Event in my life. Nothing can compare." And then something else happens, and thus repeats the cycle. For me, I thought college was my life-changing experience - and it was, really - but now my life is being changed again by the women I'm getting to know. They're beautiful, smart, brave, creative, and unique, and the fact that they are currently incarcerated is no reason to believe that they can't make valuable contributions to society.

Getting off my soapbox now, promise.

So, this is a writer's blog. My writing is ultimately going to live here, and as I work on my graduate school applications, I'll be writing more and more. Sometimes I'll post finished work; other times I'll post works in progress. I might go days or weeks (hopefully not weeks, because I'll have deadlines coming up pretty soon) without updating and then post several entries in rapid succession. Such are the habits of a writer. And a procrastinator. I'm both of those things.

And now for the million-dollar question: Why do I write? There are a lot of reasons, but the main reason is that it's how I feel I express myself most effectively. I can do with the written word things that I can't do anywhere else. When I write, I'm no longer self-conscious, awkward, or anxious. I can take the time to think about what I want to say and what each word means. I can take myself to places and explore parts of myself that otherwise I would have trouble finding. I said it in my "about me" section and I'll say it again: I write to sustain my soul. When I write something I'm particularly proud of, it gives me a great sense of achievement and happiness. There are few other things in my life about which I feel that way.

I think that's a good amount of information for a first blog post. You'll learn more about me as I post more of my writing. I'm going to wrap this up with a few ground rules:

-I hope this goes without saying, but this is a public archive, so you never know. Please DO NOT use my work for ANY reason without asking me first. This includes copying it in your own blog, distributing it for monetary gain, using it in academia, and publishing it. And please, please don't claim it as your own. Plagiarism is so lame.

-Unless otherwise noted, all of my writing is work in progress. Please just bear that in mind.

-I readily accept and value feedback; it helps me develop and strengthen my writing. However, please be mature and intelligent about the comments you give. Saying things like "This sucks! I hate it!" or "This is the best poem ever!" doesn't help me. If a piece doesn't work for you, that's fine and I respect that, but I want to know what specifically doesn't work - and, on the flip side, what specifically DOES work. I may express views or opinions you don't agree with. Again, that's fine, but please remember that disagreeing with an opinion is not the same as having an issue with the writing style or tone of a piece.

-On that note, I am a woman who loves women. Everyone is entitled to their own values and opinions on the matter, but rather than leaving a nasty comment about a piece that addresses the topic, just...don't read it. I believe the universal law of fanfiction applies here: don't like, don't read.

-I reserve the right to delete any comments that are offensive to myself or others.

Okay! I think that's everything! (Another thing I can do with writing is be a lot more authoritative than I ever am in person!) Now that the obligatory introductions are over with, the "real" stuff will come very soon! Have a wonderful day/night, everyone, depending on your time zone!