Original Poem: New Dress

New Dress

Rachel Marie Talan

Tissues--

fallen soldiers of love

have surrendered,

their bodies scattered over the floor,

a trail from the bed 

to the bathroom vanity.

Ben and Jerry,

beneath the bedside lamp,

are arguing who

has dibs on the silver lady,

lying at the nightstand’s edge.

The bed’s pillows are 

wrinkled and angry

and the TV has

been on for days, 

mourning the ends of

shows stuck in reruns,

characters never aging.

The walk-in closet

glows yellow

--a bulb about to burn out--

and hangers

are tangled bitterly

over the mouth of a

hungry hamper.

Then the front door clicks.

Footsteps up the stairs.

A box on the bed.

The TV off.

Purse slung

into a chair.

Zzzzzipp.

A look in the mirror

with a sudden smile says:

Nothing heals

a fractured heart

like the touch of

a new dress.

Silent, I Would Walk Barefoot Through the Forest Like a Native

Despite my feet always being ice cubes, I am happiest barefoot and free. While hiking, I often pretend I'm a Native American, sneaking around barefoot without rustling any of the leaves. But Josh makes me leave my shoes on because he insists that parasites, fungus or the black plague will soak up through the soles of my feet. And I listen to him because I know that even if those things didn't happen to me, I'd probably just stab my fragile feet with twigs or something because I'm not always the most graceful ballerina in the company. 

But shoes aren't so bad I suppose. And these are my favorites. Since purchasing them in January from The Paraders, I scarcely go a day without them...

(original post)

(original post) 

(original post)

Original Poem: The Kuleshov Effect

Recently, Josh did a stop motion video of me writing out one of my poems called "The Kuleshov Effect." Stop motion is done by taking consecutive photos and then playing them back at 24 frames/sec. It gives the film a choppy look, and with the antique effect Josh used, this really looks like an antique film (well, except for the two cars in my driveway). I hope you love it as much as I do!

 

The Kuleshov Effect

Rachel Marie Talan

Shelved books gather dust like old,

forgotten trophies. Sunlight streams through 

the open window,

a spotlight.

Cut.

The author spins phrases on his typewriter

while the sun strikes his back with 

warmth, with pain. 

Cut.

There’s a dandelion on the lawn. A 

lone survivor. All his friends, killed on

behalf of beauty’s war. 

Cut.

She sits at the bar and takes her

first drink in fifteen years.

Cut.

A penny is stranded, tail-side-up, in the gutter.

Cut.

A cigar still burns in an ashtray,

smoke dancing up and away from its

abandoned form.

Cut. 

The metronome ticks atop the musicless piano. 

Cut.

"It would protect me on the cold walk into the village for milk"

This lovely 1950s trench coat has been so trusty and warm and perfect. However, as much as I adore it, I am ready to retire it for the season. I'm also ready to retire my textbooks (at least for a time). I'm ready to instead pick up my high waisted shorts, sandals, and my leather bound journal. How I miss writing and reading for my own pleasure. I'm ready for summer's freedom and adventures.

There are so many things I want to learn that I cannot find time for while I am still in school --- ironic isn't it? I made a list of resolutions when the New Year came about, but I feel like I need to make another one for summer.

And so...some hopeful summer plans:

x learn to really sew with my new sewing machine
x learn to skillfully operate the animation software I purchased for Meep and Merp
x translate my favorite French poems
x take a yoga class
x buy a bike

And knowing me, there will be many more. I'm too ambitious for my own good.

Do you have any premature summer plans like I do?



Details:

This outfit was worn awhile ago. But some of these images didn't appear in the original post. And I am still wearing this trench coat every bitter cold April day.

This post title is a quote from Billy Collins' poem "The Lesson."

Featured Poet: Gina Alyse

Potpourri

by Gina Apperson

To someone else

Dried flowers may seem better

Than a collection of random

Literary extracts.

An extract of honey perfume

May smell more welcoming

Than the crisp paper pages

My fingers hold.

A diamond ring that flashes

With every change of light

May bedazzle more brilliantly

Than the next metaphor listed.

In fact the next hidden meaning

Of this delicate language

May just go unnoticed

As clouds spiral day by day,

Making curtains in the air.

Such curtain, only of lies,

Would then feel softer

Than the quiet melody

Of missing voices

In the beryl skies.

And the sweet music that vibrates

Daily instead

Would sound better

Than the flawless flow

Of words voiced with strong soul

To someone else.

But never am I

This someone else.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Featured Poet: Gina Alyse is a delight. She keeps an eclectic blog where she catalogues her interests and daily musings, and she was kind enough to feature some of my work.  "Potpourri" has such a calm rhythm to it. I especially love the lines "as clouds spiral day by day, making curtains in the air." Such a lovely image. 

For Reasons, Most Wondrous

"To the garden, the world, anew ascending,
Potent mates, daughters, sons, preluding,
The love, the life of their bodies, meaning and being,
Curious, here behold my resurrection, after slumber;

"The revolving cycles, in their wide sweep, have brought me again,	5
Amorous, mature—all beautiful to me—all wondrous; My limbs, and the quivering fire that ever plays through them, for reasons, most wondrous;

"Existing, I peer and penetrate still,
Content with the present—content with the past,

"By my side, or back of me, Eve following,	10
Or in front, and I following her just the same." ---- "To the Garden of the World" by Walt Whitman

Outfit Details:

Photos taken by Josh.

Glasses//RayBan
Earrings//Vintage, 1950s
Ring//Antique
Cardigan//Charlotte Russe
Dress (worn as blouse)//Vintage, 1980s
Skirt//Vintage, 1960s - via Vintage Archives
Shoes//Vintage 1960s
Handbag//Vintage 1950s

Original Poem: Clumsy

Clumsy

by Rachel Marie Talan

My poems are always so clumsy...

The words sort of

trip

over

each 

other

in choppy rhythm.

Are they even poems at all?

Just weak collections of lines.

The writings of others

know exactly

what they're about.

They've skipped adolescence

and stopped falling over their own feet.

Their text,

black, straight, organized,

stands erect

in perfect,

rectangular columns.

Not mine though.

Mine finds a way of

slipping

off

the

page.

____________________________________________________________________________________

As promised, this is the poem I had published in Nota Bene. I really enjoy playing with the positioning of words in my writing, and I absolutely love concrete poetry, which is a form of poetry where the words are placed intentionally out of alignment on the page in order to make a picture. It's quite fun. To me, poetry has always been like doing a puzzle.

My Name All Done Up in Helvetica

Seeing my name in print never does cease to thrill me. My poem "Clumsy" was chosen for publication in Phi Theta Kappa's annual literary anthology Nota Bene along with other poems and stories from students across the country. They chose the most perfect picture to accompany my piece, which, as you can imagine, just tickles me and my whimsical heart pink.

If you stop by again on Friday, I'll post the full-length poem for you to peruse.
Until then, my friends!

Original Poem: Paper Tyranny

Last Friday I went with Courtney to a poetry reading in southern Wisconsin. The café was delightful and only carried organic products. I confess, I ate cheesecake and a cinnamon roll for dinner that night. The server told me she admired me, but there's nothing to be admired about a 20 year old eating sugar for dinner and then blowing bubbles in her milk because she's so nervous about reading a poem in front of an audience that she has lost all her common sense. 

But I digress...

It was my first time performing at an open mic, and I felt quite brave afterward -- like a gladiator of poets. The poem below is the one I read...into the microphone...that made my voice really really loud...so everybody could hear every single word I said...

Paper Tyranny

Rachel Marie Talan

We are paper dolls

in a paper world, and all

must fold before you.

Your wicked lips, like

paper clips, are click-clicking 

over paper ears. 

Crumpled citizens

listen and watch, faces blank

with unprinted fears.

Your scissors above

are casting shadows and dread:

Snip. Snip. We’re all dead.

I'd also like to thank everyone for the sweet words of encouragement you gave me on Monday. All of you are just swell :)

Frank's Gone Missing

Dear Frank,

I'm sorry for leaving you in that nasty women's restroom. But I was only trying to protect you from drowning by placing you on the edge of that stark white sink. I hope you can forgive me.

I came back and searched everywhere for you, but I suppose someone else has snatched you up by now. I hope she treats you with kindness, but I know that nobody will love you in such an illogical way as I do.

Stay off the drugs, Frank.
And if you should ever find your way home, there will always be a place for you in the flowery tea cup next to Dexter and Eliza.

un poète pauvre, mais libre

For so long I was so certain that I would grow up and become a famous writer of short stories or novels or maybe witty magazine features. And if that didn't work out, I knew for certain I would become an editor, a professional and vigilant grammar Nazi. But now I'm second-guessing that future.

After attending the media conference in New York and meeting the nation's most prestigious editors, I felt unimpressed. I can't imagine myself associating with them, and I surely don't want to become like them: boring, condescending, and -- did I mention boring?

I always have loved stories and writing, and I still do! Though I have written some fiction, I've always preferred writing poetry, and I've always been better at that. But, in case you weren't aware, poets don't make any money. Quite literally. None. Even when they have their work published, they still usually make none.

I haven't quite given up the notion of becoming a writer or editor, but I'm keeping my mind open to new ideas. With all my interests, I imagine I will experience multiple careers in my lifetime.

Oddly enough, this uncertainty feels good. I feel free not knowing what it is I want. I feel like dancing. I feel like exploring. I want to try everything.

Outfit Details:

(It deeply irks me that the waistline of my dress peeked out in these photos. I'm trying not to be OCD about it, but it's very very hard.)

Linked up at Not Dead Yet Style.

Necklace//Target (Surprised? I was.)
Dress (worn as blouse)//Vintage, 1980s
Cardigan//Charlotte Russe
Ring//Antique - Sara Coventry
Skirt//Vintage, Ralph Lauren, 1980s
Shoes//Vintage via The Paraders

Featured Poet: Jessica

Somebody Doesn't Exist
by Jessica of The Midwest Muse


Will somebody remember us?
When  the oceans dry up,
and the finest art decays,
the stars burn out and modernization never happened.
And there's the jasmine scented room,
where we laid our coats and our bodies,
and you caught me looking at that man,
that wasn't you and I smiled.

When there are no trees left to be wheeled away,
buildings aren't constructed out of brick and mortar.
And the midsummer nights are riddles,
where you seduced the warmth with a broken banjo.
And I gambled the night away with a drink,
a false smirk and the skin under my favorite dress.

Will somebody remember us?
When the food chain shifts,
the leaves stop changing.
And children are never granted innocence.
The grass vanishes,
replaced by sand,
And the landlocked blues
fade into the Earth.

When the color drains from my wine stained cheeks,
and the world has no color palette.
The plethora of choices become a single option,
and like the scones I never ate,
we crumble into crumbs.

Will somebody remember us?
When the birds can no longer fly,
and your once bright eyes have dimmed
like the moon that forgets to set,
and the sun that never rises.
We were young once,
when we dressed up in our Sunday's finest,
and we stole from the house by the sea.

When the heat never returns,
and seasons are a foreign concept,
like the film we watched that first night,
and the fireworks we created before we understood,
what the tears really meant.

Will somebody remember us?
When time was a concept built by a man,
but the man died and took his secrets to the grave,
The vegetables cannot grow without water,
and water only existed to wash away our dreams,
like the paint we used on the bridge that collapsed.

When harmonies cannot be heard,
because the world is tone deaf.
Like the night I sang out of tune,
to your broken banjo.


__________________________________________________________________


Featured Poet: Jessica is a lovely lady, who was kind enough to feature my blog on hers not too long ago. Her style is always colorful and well thought out. To get to know her better, visit her blog here.
__________________________________________________________________

Are you a poet? I'd love to feature your original work!
Submission Guidelines:
Subject matter is not limited, though profanity is discouraged.
Submissions are subject to editing if deemed necessary.
You must be a follower of The Quirky Poet via Bloglovin' or Google Friend Connect.
You may send your poems to rachelmarie@thequirkypoet.com.


Thanks for reading!

New York City: a Tale of Adventure and Anxiety

Upon arriving in New York City, panic tightened in my chest -- the buildings are so tall and I'm so small and look at all the people and OHMYGOD THAT BLACK SUV ALMOST KILLED ME!!! I was ready to tell the shuttle driver I'd pay him $100 to take me back to the airport so I could go home. But, like all the other New Yorkers, he was too quick and had already driven away by the time my brain had calmed enough to process my fight or flight response. So I stayed. And I'm glad I did. After visiting Times Square, feeling the calm, openness of the wind, the long streets and tall buildings seemed to shrink a little. Claustrophobia subsided and I felt my normal size again.

 

My most favorite stop in Times Square was, unsurprisingly, the Disney store. It was the only store in which all the employees were happy and friendly. I skipped my way through the two story haven and came out with a delightful Cheshire Cat mug which makes my hot tea even more wonderous. I do so wish they made dreamy princess dresses in my size.

Across the street from the hotel was a quaint French restaurant where I enjoyed ratatouille with goat cheese. MMMMM...favorite meal of the trip. Well, besides all the cupcakes I ate. And I ate a lot of cupcakes: white chocolate blueberry, apple crisp, cookie dough, and raspberry swirl cupcakes to be exact.

Central Park was a mere three blocks away from the hotel, and it was much more lovely than I imagined it would be. I got to see the Balto statue, which pleased me so greatly. I never had guessed that visiting New York would fulfill so many of my childhood aspirations. I also visited the John Lennon memorial. The sign here says that musical instruments and machine-projected sound are prohibited, which I find rather ironic. John Lennon would have a fit I think. So I just started singing Strawberry Fields as loud as I could without embarrassing myself.

By the second day of shopping in New York, I was rather depressed that I couldn't have any of the gorgeous dresses. I absolutely adored the Anthropologie store, and oh goodness, they had the most beautiful minidress. But it was $300. So I left the beautiful shop empty handed and feeling rather disappointed in our gimme-more culture. I ought to be more grateful for the lovely things I have. They are enough.

I was assured by dozens of parties that it is quite impossible to lose your way in New York City, and I assured these parties that I of all people would find a way. And I did just that. On two occasions. Both of which took me at least an hour beyond my destination. Oh, it was delightful. Just delightful. My feet hate me for it still. 

 

After meandering hopelessly off track, I eventually made it to the proper subway, which apparently has new switches and less hitches and witty poets who frequent it. This filthy subway took me to Staten Island, where I saw the statue of Liberty in all her glowing, evening glory. She was breathtaking. Unfortunately, I was unable to capture her beauty with my chintzy camera. BUT I did get this serendipitous shot of the city. Look at all the little blurry music notes my camera's bad exposure made! It pleases my whimsical heart.  

It was a lovely trip. But my body and I are happy to be home - at a consistent ground level! - in one piece.

Return of the [Vintage] Jedi

After many adventures in New York City, I have returned!

This is the delightful ensemble I wore to dinner with Josh the night before I departed.

He said, "Those shoes are really cool. You look really pretty tonight."

To which I said, "Thanks, love. I kinda thought so too."

False modesty never has suited me...

But don't you ever have days where you look in the mirror and think, Man, I look gooood?

Yeah, I like those days.

I'll be back later this week with some of my photos from New York :)

Outfit details:

Cardigan//Charlotte Russe
Dress//ModCloth
Necklace//Vintage
Purse//Charming Charlie's

Shoes//Vintage, 1960s