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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             twitter                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

 

I wish I were sane
enough
to explain feelings;

sexy enough
to hold you
with my eyes;

strong
enough
to keep

from crying. I wish
I never made wishes:
wishes are for us

who don't try.
Breathing feels sometimes
like climbing

into high spaces
where the air is
thin and deficient,

breathing without moving
can be more than
marathon running. I wish

I were sick enough
to be weak, strong
enough to be enough

for you. But here
are the tears I've
collected, and

I'm sorry they are
not particularly
articulate.


 

poem for blah blah head stuff no time to finish thinking

I'd like to say I'm still
afraid. Of that girl, from Canada (Oh
geography! It's not enough to say
this place is far - no place is far,
all places are inside your heart) but

it's not that. It's the seed which lives

inside of me, the stems which sprout
and root into my toes, who
am I? Am I growing into a spot
where you are building rollercoasters?

 

cords

Listen to the sound of my voice. It has
that cadence, that sound which is
feminine - not small - commanding like

hot breath on your ear, you feel
the rising and falling of

my voice, it almost sings while
speaking calmly. Here it is, the way
breath feels in and out of

your body, that's a focal point.
Pizzicato playing on your

most sore muscles, the ones which want
a strong certain voice, breath
vibrating across these folds.


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           Links

            adam.
            elimae.
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