This is old(ish) but I'm going through my piles of half written pieces, doing revisions and putting them together in some type of order.
There is No Sex in My Poetry
When you left
so did the sex
in my poetry. The frustration
for years, sprinkling inanimate
objects in sensuality, giving them
life in a way that moved,
dancing into a sultry story.
My words are still chafed
and raw, but they are no
longer something private, shared
between us - they've become unattractive,
picked at scabs, or bleeding
My sex was light,
a distraction from
unspecified emotional pain, giving
way to eroticism, in blushing suggestion
of abuse, or
My writing has become celibate.
The sterile stories must
hold their own descriptions, painting asexual
pictures. I cannot rely on
shock or disgust -
that dirty word.
I spend more time in bed, alone,
my poetry far from
the space between
or yours. Stepping out of its leather
and lace, dressing itself
in a shapeless frock, tying
it's tennis shoes. It has
I've been looking forward to this month's edition of Poetry- my fave poet, Sharon Olds, is mentioned in an upcoming issue. Instead, the magazine feature about 5 poems by this barely literate lady, Kay Ryan. Her lines are short, only a few words, most of them have only 2 or 3 words. Which is fine, but when you have lines that short more weight is placed on each word, each syllable. Even worse, somehow this lady won the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize, which awards a poet like a million dollars (gross exaggeration) to help support his/her writing.