Welcome to the new Tuesday installment! It’s Poetry Tuesday! We are going to go back through all my old notebooks and look at the god-awful poetry I wrote when I was an angsty teen and then you will get present day Michelle’s re-interpretation/headdesk horror-filled embarrassment.
Your voice slides over my skin
A silk caress that steals my breath
It feels as though you’ve never left
This is a masterpiece of a poem – because it is unfinished. Sorry for the very short poem, but I am actually quite glad that baby Michelle never finished this one because it looks like I was going to try to write an extremely cliched and overly dramatic romance poem that would have made present Michelle cringe. I am basing this observation not on the fact that all my previous poems have been very cringe-worthy, but on the last line “It feels as though you’ve never left” that is prime material for a long poem wailing about abandonment and true love and waiting forever and ever and ever.
Let’s look at the ways in which this poem could have gone:
- Abandonment/waiting forever – the sort of “I still feel you in my dreams” titanic level of “you are gone by my heart still goes on.” As we all know, that is a very unhealthy mentality. Very romantic and fun to work with, but ultimately not helpful for reality
- Maybe the narrator is blind or has synesthesia which is why ze can “feel” hir lover’s voice on hir skin
- Maybe the narrator has a voice kink and can get off by hir lover’s voice alone
- Masturbation while hir lover is away on a business trip or at work
- Um…sex sex sex sex because that was what teenage Michelle often had on her brain
I would offer to try to finish the poem, present Michelle finishing Baby Michelle’s work, but as I have said in the tags many times – I am by no means a poet. Poetry is an art that requires extreme discrimination when it comes to word choice and exquisite imagery. There is a reason why I write prose and novels. I have too many words in my head and the thought of distilling them down into short, powerful jabs is an overwhelming prospect. I also am not a master of imagery. I do not see the world the way I imagine a poet does. I abuse metaphor and simile in a way that makes writers cringe. Do not get me wrong, I can have my poetic moments, but they are few and far between.
Since this week was so short, let me recommend a few poems: