Rounding out the NPM Celebration with My Poetry

For the last installment of National Poetry Month here at Eli to the nth, I thought I'd share some of my own poetry.  Most of my poetry has to do with personal things, such as family, friends, and myself, so the fact that I'm sharing it here is a huge step.  Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and try not to be too harsh on me, I get enough of that from editors and my writing group!


I AM FROM

I am from blankets made out of long worn clothes,
from televisions, CCD classes and home-cooked meals.
I'm from the suburbs, (but every house has character),
From ice cream trucks and the neighborhood watch,
And the three oaks standing tall in the front yard,
growing as my sister grows, as I grow, as my brother grows.

I am from the blessing of the baskets and midnight mass.
From Michele and David, Blanche and Raymond.
I’m from kisses on the mouth and constant teasing.
From enveloping hugs and spanks on the butt.
From Melissa’s shadow, from the middle of three.
I’m from “Don’t talk to strangers!” and “You're so sensitive.",
"Kocham Cię." and "Malutka.", and “Our Fathers”
followed by “Hail Marys”.

I am from Poland, not by blood but family;
the home my dziadkowie speak of so often.
From Gołąbki, Kiełbasa, and Placki ziemniaczane
(with the occasional pot roast and pizza.)
I'm from the struggle of indentured servants
trying to earn their freedom, but never reaching it.
Keeping their traditions alive through
a hand-written recipe book, a cast-iron mold,
and a gilt-edged Bible.

===========================

Main Interest?

It was me, but
I was being naïve,
I couldn’t keep you,
too dazed by love to see it.

I want to whisper take me back,
But I avoid you because then,
then I can pretend.
Then I can be selfish.

Illusions have a habit of breaking.

===========================

Cake Stuffing 

I want to scream until my lungs,

traveling upupup my trachea,

burst out of my mouth.

Then I’ll gulp them back down while I

Breathe deep– inhale the perfume,

like a vacuum, the smog. And

keep all my words (each fucking one)

inside, hidden in a pink, withahintofgrey,

membrane (unfortunate left over from my smoker days)

But

If there is one thing I’ve learned

(have I learned?) is that

re-heated spaghetti tastes terrible coming back up.

You probably think this is all a big

joke-farce-travesty

waste of time.

And maybe when it matters it is

(because levity is my only medicine),

but I digress, and digress, and digress, and digress, and digress, and digress, and digress

Back to hiding, eating, retreating—

My words, thoughts, feelings.

I do what any fat girl does: stuff them down 

with cake.

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