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Post by icefang on Apr 29, 2006 9:22:57 GMT -5
Okay, Things Left Unsaid is a book by Stephanie Hemphill, and what I like about it is it's written in poems. Below are some of my favorites. Some of them have mature content in them. If they do, I have marked them. Many of them don't have mature content, but *may* be offensive to some readers (may being the operative word). I can't mark those because I don't know what may offend some of you.
If you don't understand what's going on in a poem, it's often not as good. My advice is to read the book (Things Left Unsaid, by Stephanie Hemphill! that's Hemphill- H-E-M-P-H-I-L-L). If you don't want to, you can PM me and ask me what's it all about, but I won't give things away here. I will give you this though, the summary of the book:
Sarah used to be the good girl. The one who always had her hand raised in class, always obeyed her parents. Until she met Robin. Once Robin comes into the picture, Sarah's life changes. Her closet begins to fill with black clothes. Good grades become something to be studiously avoided. And maintaining her other friendships doesn't seem so important anymore.
Sarah thinks she knows Robin. But Robin eats danger for breakfast. Robin pushes the limits way too far, and forces Sarah to question everything in her life-- everything Sarah th inks she wants. In stunning verse, this novel slowly reveals the complexities of friendship-- the power it has to define, destroy, and, eventually, heal again.
Remember, I did not write any of these, they're all written by Ms. Hemphill.
*Note: There are a lot of poems.
*Another Note: The first line is always the title. I say this because some of the poems continue from their title as if the title is part of the poem.
ON WITH THE POETRY!
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Post by icefang on Apr 29, 2006 15:21:28 GMT -5
Prologue
What you don't know is that I have a sixth toe on my left foot
and possess superpowers, can transform a tornado
into a birthday party, a car wreck into a yard sale.
What you don't know is that before this lifetime I was an oracle.
People paid gold coins to hear my premonitions, and the flame
in my temple was tended morning to midnight. What you don't know
is that I have always told you the truth, covered up under
a yellow rain slicker, diminished by good deodorant, made palatable
with crimson lip gloss. What you don't know is that I hear
when you move your lips. I can repeat your words in instant replay,
and my internal hard drive rarely has memory retrieval problems.
What you don't know is that I am a piece of glass. I see you
stand behind me, and see clearly when I stand alone. What you don't
know is that you trail me like a ghost. I hear you creak up
the stairs, see your outline in the mist of my shower, feel you exhale
between my shoulder blades when I sleep. What you don't
know is that like the most renewable resources I can be translucent
one day and broken-down the next, sharp then dull.
I replenish myself, shed my skin like the rattlesnake, learn to use
new limbs like the starfish, devour insects and enemies
like the black widow. What you don't know is that although
my eyes appear to stare blankly forward, words boil inside my head.
What you don't know are the things I leave unsaid.
September
stretches like one long evening, a bronze dusk before the weather turns gray.
The slow drag of afternoon inside stuffy classrooms.
I squirm in new sneakers, feel trapped, my desk bolted to the floor.
Expectations
Sometimes I feel like I might implode, like I'm standing in a room where the walls and ceiling keep inching closer and closer, boxing me in, cutting off oxygen compacting me down to nothing, all the while a ticking clock counts down the seconds of my impending failure.
The more I think about the SAT, the less I can sleep lately, and the real test is literally months away.
My alarm clock sounds, summoning me to another Saturday trapped in computer room of recirculated air. My stomach churns, a tidal pool of anxiety, but I autopilot myself to school.
The 411 Exchange
Gina tells me:
that Robin is the girl who painted the Alice in Wonderland set black last spring; the stage manager was furious and Mr. Turner kicked her off the crew
that Robin slashed Mrs. Potter's tires because she failed biology
that Robin punched Troy Lasserman so hard after he called her "burn victim," he chipped a tooth
that Robin tap dances on a narrow gangplank, unafraid of plunging into dark waters
that Robin is troubled and I should walk carefully around her.
I tell Gina:
that Robin thought an all-black Wonderland with glow-in-the-dark foliage would be a psychedelic spin on an otherwise boring set
that Robin was out sick the fateful day Mrs. Potter's tires lost their air
that Troy Lasserman deserved more than a damaged tooth
that rumors and reputation are only one layer of the story of Robin
that I was meeting Robin after school and Gina ought to come along and get to know her.
The Freedom of Robin
She stands above or below but never dirties herself in the toxic waste of
grades, tests, boys' attention. Competition is for the weak-minded, people who need gold stars
of approval to feel worthy to breathe in air. Robin chooses not to care,
deprograms herself from the conformity of stress Authority Figures try to impose
on her, refuses their mold of Robin teenager. She tells me its human nature
to rebel, that I possess bravery, that the idiot drones will Hatfield-and-McCoy themselves into oblivion.
November
burns, and itchy throat tightening restricting breath, speech.
Pile of ashes on the lawn where leaves once lay.
The ground hardens, shrinks as temperature drops
and we're confined indoors, no lunch outside, no field sports.
January
A new year, new calendar of expectations. A new layer of ice freezes over the pond.
Cries of the child drowning underwater, banging to break the surface and breathe air, diminish to the point of being muted out.
A new beginning, room of a hundred doors to unlock, but behind each one, a brick wall.
Snow Angels
Fall backward play the game of trust and the bank will catch you.
Wingspan arms, scissor legs and imprint an angel.
Even if you're bundled in black, your angel will be white and soaring in the snow.
Geography
Denial is the longest river in the world easiest to navigate via the mouth, but I don't utter a word.
I stand silent jeans rolled above knees my sneakers caked in silt and wade into murky water eyes closed, alone.
*Mild Mature Content*
Things That Make Me Angry
Standardized tests, streets with no parking, when the skirt I just purchased goes on sale the following week, fistfights, litter, public displays of affection, out-of-tune pianos, jarred animal parts in the science lab, algebra, gum under my shoe, the flu, nightmares, unanswered questions, playing scapegoat for someone else's pain, blood, razor blades, lies, anything that cuts.
Old Habits
Like a sleepwalker I can navigate even when my eyes are closed. My feet follow common carpet tread, negotiate stairs with ease.
I'm half asleep, wading through the wake Robin created. I sink into Familiar Sarah, the one who studies, the one who doesn't break curfew, the one I hope no one needs to worry about.
*Mature Content*
Breaking Down: The Sequel
Maybe it's being alone, immobile at the side of the road, an arctic wind lapping at my ears, maybe it's the reminiscent dial tone clanging in my brain after Mom hangs up, maybe it's the image of Robin's empty visiting-room chair that I can't shake,
but when Mom picks me up my lockjaw ceases and the novel I've held on reserve pours from my mouth.
I tell her about the phone call, the psych-ward excursion, the nights I can't sleep because dream after dream I stuff pills down Robin's throat, draw the razor across her wrist. I tell Mom about the waking moments I tremble knowing how close I came to falling into the same manhole Robin tumbled down.
I crumble onto couch, sob ten straight minutes until my tear ducts run dry, lean against Mom, match my breathing pattern to hers, and close my eyes.
March
There is this word on my tongue-- verdant
which means green, lush or in a person unsophisticated.
Green things can bud simply, require only rain, seeds, sunlight.
Anesthesia wears off and the mouth opens to drink, speak, recover.
Spotlight
Robin shielded me from blistering heat of spotlight, blocked me from audience view, then abandoned me to bake under glare of inquisition about what happened to her. But now that bulb flickers, is burning out.
Bright electric globes tossed onto stage entice me. I trace edges of spotlight not sure if I'm ready to stand in that much visibility by choice.
Tired of my shadow movements, I inhale deep, visor eyes with hand, and inch into ball of light.
Derek Doesn't
lavish me with gifts, no bouquet of flowers tucked under arm, no extravagant city dinners, elaborate weekend excursions,
but when he phones, e-mails after midnight, Derek asks how I broke my arm when I was five, my favorite literary character,
best song lyric, most ticklish spot, which city I find alluring. The next day he slips a postcard of Florence through my locker slats, Someday Soon inked on back.
Early Morning
the first words my throat forms crackle. They're rusty, hard to spit out. But after ten minutes and a glass of water, I find my voice normalizes. It's strong, agile and all mine-- sounds like no one else.
And the last poem, as you will clearly see, is more of a letter, but it's the last paragraph that I like the most (lol, I bolded it).
*Mild Mature Content*
Invitation
Dear Robin,
I dialed your number five times, kept hanging up. I hope you can hear my words on this page, because what I didn't say to you at Mel's is everything.
It felt like someone chopped off my right hand when I heard you tried to kill yourself. My body felt numb, you were severed from me, but your ghost limb haunted my every move. Each breath I drew tasted like guilt. I needed to talk to you, but you cut my phone cord. Still I missed you, worried about you, wondered why you did it.
You played dead with me. I had no option but to mourn and move on. Where I moved to, Robin, is this really cool place, this unexpected place I didn't know I could find, where I like the sound of my voice, tolerate my reflection in the mirror. I had to travel to this place by myself, but I don't live here alone.
The species of friends we were before is extinct to me. Skeletons of disappointment and unhappiness don't fit me anymore. I doubt those old bones feel comfortable to you either.
What I'm saying is that maybe we can start over, forge new footprints. I'd love it if you came to see me in the play tomorrow night, but understand if you don't want to or can't. I can't go back, Robin, only forward now. I'm inviting you to come along.
Sarah
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Post by icefang on Apr 29, 2006 15:22:37 GMT -5
((If you'll notice, I had it one post for each poem, but I condensed it to one big post))
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Post by icefang on Apr 29, 2006 20:20:25 GMT -5
.......?
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Post by |g.O.l.d.Y| on Apr 30, 2006 4:59:22 GMT -5
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