The first three poems are from Ursinus College's Spring 1997 literary magazine, "The Lantern." The rest are from my high school's literary magazine, "listen to the voices in your head" (1996, 1997, 1998).
Addicted by Oana Nechita
I do it very often; every day, several times.
In my room, on the floor,
in the hot shower on a cold day,
on the hallways, after class,
while brushing my hair
in front of the mirror.
I do it at 2 p.m. when i'm at work,
at midnight, alone with myself,
and sometimes when I awake,
in front of the cup of coffee.
I do it slowly-- enjoying it,
heartedly--getting it all out,
shortly--when pressed by time,
but necessarily every day.
I do it in French somtimes,
like a passionate addict;
it happened in German once;
I dance when I do it in Spanish.
I do it in front of a flicjering candle,
of an open book,
in front of a Renaissance painting,
in front of the face of the moon.
I do it because of my red scarf,
because of rain sometimes,
sometimes out of too much happiness,
or too little sleep.
everyday I cry; I cry until
I fall asleep, holding myself.
Madness of a Night by Oana Nechita
I like to paint my body.
I discovered last night at 2 a.m.
when I accidentally dropped
some inck on my left hand.
I watched it grow like a blue wart,
feeling it sink through my skin,
into my veins, poisonging my blood.
Then I took out my pens and markers,
and paints, eye liners and shadows,
lipsticks, and nail polishes,
hair dyes, and powders.
Black, and green, orange, and purple,
red, blue, yellow,
and the combination of those,
they enmeshed my eyes, lips
ears shoulders,
my breasts, and belly-button;
my elbows, and fingertips
to the center of my palm;
the backs of my legs, and my knees,
my ankels, and my toes.
I looked in the mirror and
saw a naked flesh canvas,
breathing and moving within
the flexible transparency of colors.
At 6 a.m. I was standing in the shower,
breathing slowly,
watching the rainbow of
flowers, butterflies, and snakes,
birds, and dolphins,
dots, lines, squares, and circles,
all sucked down into the dark hole
where the waste water goes.
I got out o fthe shower;
my skin was dry and clean.
I looked in the mirror, and resented
the plainess of my body.
It was boring, so I covered it
with colored clothes
to remind me of
the madness of a night.
At the Wyeth Gallery by Jim Maynard
A memory:
my mother and I, an art gallery.
A slow afternoon gives us the place
to ourselves and we enjoy it, walking
from room to room, picture to picture.
Even though we are by ourselves
we still feel the need to whisper.
We don't talk about how I will be
leaving again for college in a week,
or how, after rearranging my bedroom
for the fourth year in a row,
she will soon just aviod the empty reminder.
Instead we talk about art.
These paintings are memories for us,
memories that hang in our galleries within:
of days when the family came here
at least once a year for the holiday exhibit,
of how we as children were so fascinated
by model trains and Christmas trees,
when art was a language we felt but could't speak.
She and I then sit together on a wooden bench
before glass panels that overlook the muddy river,
the skt a watercolor wash of grey, winter grass
like scattered yellow brushstrokes on the banks--
is that our reflection in the window?
The sweeping motion of the water
makes it seem as if we are gliding by
as the world outside stands still.
I think of this as she and I continue walking,
she observing the paintings, I observing her.
We are both growing older,
and poems, too, are memories.
As if she can read my thoughts, she pauses
before a painting that we have seen every year:
You know, I've always liked this one.
Why don't you write a poem about it?
But my mother doesnt't realize
that i've come here for different reasons,
that every moment contains a poem,
and that she and I are already
in the midst of a better one.
© 1999 ~*~ mel ~*~
