The Musings of a Housewife, the Undusted Corners of Her Mind.

Just that, see, alone, at home, sick and without cable or internet, this came out.....

 

This is it, I think, I imagine, poetry is nothing but my head, my fingers plucking words out of my tangled curls, letters that have wrestled free in the hopes that someone would find them as beautiful as the hair that giggles, carelessly, down the curves of my spine, the love notes I discard but write as eyes search me when the lights are shut off and the moon fights to rest in between he and I, to be a part of some of the secrets I glance to him, a few of the whispers I never release.

        I understand that understanding is hard to come by, I wrestle with impossibilities in order to keep my fingers wrapped around some semblance of hope, but it's thin, it's heart is diseased and my nails are perfect enough only to fool those who brush my hand in a greeting or, perhaps, a shallow goodbye, to fool those who never look deep enough into the eyes that hypnotize him,my muse, the eyes that stuck in his head for years, that made him laugh with their shyness, that made him smile with the reflection of sunrise and the soft breath that swore my undying love and that shattered him with my disdain and disbelief, reflecting his anger and his cruelty.

        Poetry. What a small, undeveloped word for the inner confines of my brain. Yet what else is there to define my ramblings, my surreal ideas of the everyday...for me, anyway. It's scrawled as quickly as this, mere minutes of release, an orgasm of feeling, a short breath of my life, and, like the best of all releases, it tires me, frightens me, for who, what neighbor, who has only seen my face but twice, has heard this scream and caught a glimpse of my nakedness, my arched back, and a stranger, no less, has now run their tongue across my winter white skin, tasting the sweat that drips from my body, my twisted thighs, eating my words and swallowing my privacy...and as I close my eyes, lashes now resting peacefully against my flushed cheeks, I have to wonder...will they remember my voice? When the sun peeks in through their curtains on some random Wednesday morning, will the taste of my skin creep across their lips, possibly creating a smile, a grin, or maybe even a precious tear that has a flavor somewhat like me....will they know my name?

        Does it matter...do I need that? I sit on my bed, laptop resting on my lap, go figure, jeans torn at the knee, cigarette resting in left hand, brought to my lips only upon occasion for my habit requires mainly the feel of it, I am alone, I ponder the same things many women do (I think, anyway), such as needing to polish my toenails, will I receive flowers in the near future, does he love me, damn, I need to wash the kitchen floor, f**k, I need to get out of this house and work again, etc. And you know...I think I do...need it, the recognition, at least for a second, to make me more than a two penny w***e that has met some required need for five minutes, that has allowed a foreign tongue to taste her woman hood, I'd rather not be forgotten. This sounds so harsh, so dirty, but we.are. Dirty in the depths of our soul, in the scattered memories we refuse to clean up, we stain the past with blood and regret, we dust earth over instances that we prayed would never happen, those nights when prayers still mattered and the white of our nightgown was at least somewhat honest in her virginal shade, when knees were bruised by playing too rough or running too fast, not because we were beaten, or thrown out of anger, not because we tripped running from life in fear, not because we spent too many hours contemplating life while trying to get that last, stubborn spot off the kitchen floor.

        Maybe it's true, maybe, as a writer, I think too much, I feel too much, but I swear to you, every tear I shed, every minute I spend wondering about the possibility of more, every time my kiss falls upon someone's lips and is deep and complete with every heartbeat I have ever pumped in my 33 years, I.Am.Someone. Someone other than the common housewife who accepts the daily chores and allows her brain to go blank with soccer practice and ironing, I am a mother who would never allow her daughter to grow up being less than she could be, nor expecting more from her than she was capable of giving, I am more than a family photograph that sits smiling above a mantle place begging to be dusted, no, I am a gallery piece, carefully matted and framed, a black and white of a single teardrop and, in the glass that contains me, a reflection can be caught, a moment of someone else's self realization can be found in me because I speak, because I strip, because I allow a stranger to experience my nakedness and the depth of my womanhood.

        So, do I want to be understood? Hell, yes, everyone does. And I want my name to slip off the lips that have tasted me, I want someone to know that in their moment of desperation, of pain, of loneliness and of completion, I understand, and I am there, whispering a heartbeat whose rhythm resembles theirs.

        This is my poetry, this is my life and these are my secrets, my bruised knees, my falls and my successes. The word is thin, for all of us who place ourselves upon pages to be scrutinized but, mainly, to be nothing more than understood.

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[A.J. Smith]

You know, Jeanmarie, I can never, ever, get over how absolutely stunning your writing is. I read your words here and just feel so blessed to have even had the opportunity to do so. You are an amazing woman with amazing talent. This piece is hauntingly good...it will linger in my mind well into the day. I hope you publish your material one day...I would most definitely love to have it on bound paper.

[Tim H]

What a wonderfully written metaphor. I believe you should have no doubt that you are understood and will be remembered.

[C. M. Miller]

Mr. Smith's comments are certainly spot on. When you put yourself "out there," exposing yourself to the world of poets, you run so many risks on so many personal levels . . . and yet, we dive in, do we not? Your lucid musings here are no doubt mirrored by most every poet here in the Cafe.

Being understood is not necessarily my own primary goal, but when that connection is established with the reader, then there is that poetic "ah-ha" that creates an emotion like no other!

Rest assured, I hear you Jeanmarie. And yes, on many occasion, I know exactly what you mean, and I am proud to know your name.

[Kara Emily Krantz]

I love this. (of course i do)

You delve into so much here. You definitely touch upon the things that matter to us as writers, especially as women writers. The sexualized way you describe it is actually a great metaphor for exactly what writing does to many of us - it is a release, a cathartic explosion that leaves us deplete, and yet complete. And, yes, we just want to be understood, to be recognized, to be deemed a little less crazy because what we write is genius and therefore we are not crazy - we are fantastic. Haha.

I dont really feel the need (with you) to explain parts that are my favorite, or lines that stood out, so I'm just going to share them here:

"my fingers plucking words out of my tangled curls"

"and the moon fights to rest in between he and I"

"frightens me, for who, what neighbor, who has only seen my face but twice, has heard this scream and caught a glimpse of my nakedness"

"When the sun peeks in through their curtains on some random Wednesday morning, will the taste of my skin creep across their lips, possibly creating a smile, a grin, or maybe even a precious tear that has a flavor somewhat like me....will they know my

"Does it matter...do I need that?" - I love how you go through the transitions that we go through when thinking about our writing - we want to be noticed! we want to be loved! we want to sit gloriously on their bookshelf! and then: oh wait, do I need that? Is that not a good motivation for my art? Perhaps I love art for art's sake.... hehe :)

"but we.are. Dirty in the depths of our soul, in the scattered memories we refuse to clean up, we stain the past with blood and regret, we dust earth over instances that we prayed would never happen, those nights when prayers still mattered and the white of our nightgown was at least somewhat honest in her virginal shade, when knees were bruised by playing too rough or running too fast, not because we were beaten, or thrown out of anger, not because we tripped running from life in fear."

I love that tripping from running from life, not from abuse. Especially when we have been abused, this statement holds even more power - that maybe it's never really been that we've been running from, but everything that it implies - the implications it has on life as a whole.

"every minute I spend wondering about the possibility of more, every time my kiss falls upon someone's lips and is deep and complete with every heartbeat I have ever pumped in my 33 years, I.Am.Someone."

YES :)

"whispering a heartbeat whose rhythm resembles theirs."


Beautiful. You just called me, and I ignored it because I'm a terrible person. HAHA. I was like "dude, I'm reviewing your f-en piece - what more do you want!" You were just being impatient and not giving me enough time to read it :P

Love you darlinggggggg

[Tara]

wow. I can relate to this. How intimate and vulnerable it is. And within your words I see myself and I feel validated. This is wonderful. Thank you for writing it.