Why I Am Not A Painter
A l l C o n t e n t ©2005-2021 E m i l i e H a n s o n e-mail
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Minneapolis, MN links & archives
a pile of mostly raw and probably bad poetry
on the internet
in the hopes of creating something better
This blog is not CLEAN and is not meant to be.
Useful critique appreciated, i.e. specific comments and suggestions.
You need not identify yourself unless you want to;
comments will be judged on value, not the source. (Although knowing the source can be useful.)
Unsupported heckling OR praise are not appreciated.
Also, I vaguely apologize if you're my friend and you see yourself or others we know here.
I am aware that that can be unsettling
but that's the risk you run being friends with a writer. Also,
maybe you're just being paranoid. Also,
there is never a clear picture of reality
untitled no one should ever read
as though your body
were warm sand
mine digs into it
as though your affection
were the sun on
closed eyelids, or tasted
cold air through warm lips
your breathing a tide
lapping against my eardrums
your thoughts as sweet
as the smell of you.
your words, notes
of the piano, and the piano
you know owns my heart,
you know is always
in tune. as though my fingers
on your neck could leave
tactile memories inside
your throat, to swallow
and keep love nourishing
untitled
if i could tell
an ideal story
your face
almost any time
it's not one
part but the coming
together like
paragraphs or sounds
breathing, also
song, laughter, and voice
nose, also
eyes, eyebrows, and lips
if i were to tell
i would not forget
the detail of your
chin or slight snoring, and
how it is when
your face and my face
together like
syllables and tongues
attachment
if time could wear us
to small parts, stone
which is soft, weighing
less than the wind; shifting
to the container
of this life, how
would it go? to love
you, knowing these hands
can't hold onto essence.
the size
of you expanding
like sands underfoot,
under water, inside
a shoe. transported,
a small part carried
inside, connected
to the earth. the earth
cannot fit in my pocket.
it would be a mistake
to think of having you.
it would be like flying
towards the sun, like melting into
glass and falling
untitled
we make
life what
we will
these events
to mean
meaning our
bodies are
more than
bodies; hearts
more than
meat organs
pumping blood
the sound
of breathing
magical. sparks
in eyes
we make
less chaos.
these souls
must be
speaking with
each other,
the earth,
beyond sight
hey guess what
I'm doing a lot of thinking about myself right now and need to have some more textual interaction or self-discovery before I write poetry. So suck it, blog.
david playing the guitar, from where i'm sitting
the small muscles
you move
i behind can see
focal
interest in your shoulder
or close into myself
gasp after each intake
of your breath.
i will not debate
the importance of magic
the purpose of spells
the depth
of the morning
greeting with the moon
at your back, my tongue
and lips but no sound
untitled for i shouldn't be thinking of it right now
it's hard to see the future
when you cannot tell the future
it travels on the wind
that your breath makes
it travels through the waves of
your unconscious mind, the waves of
the ocean of your stomach
and chest lightly rising
the future is hard to see
when it travels inside
your body, a dormancy.
we're not awake alone.
the reason our heads fall
into each other
is communication
words become
sentences, persuasions
made of skin, made of muscle
and air
bone which started
soft then hardened
Archives
January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 August 2005 December 2005 January 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 July 2006 August 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 September 2007 June 2011 July 2011 October 2012 November 2012 December 2012 January 2013 February 2013 March 2013 April 2013 May 2013 June 2013 July 2013 September 2013 October 2013 November 2013 March 2014 April 2014 May 2014 June 2014 July 2014 August 2014 September 2014 October 2014 December 2014 March 2015 July 2017 August 2017 September 2017 October 2017 February 2021 December 2022
Links
adam.
elimae.
pastsimple.
