Jessica McHugh's Blog, page 5

Apartment 23 (#NaPoWriMo 28)

I remember chablis dreams and the clutter of Apartment 23.Under the dust, I kept years, excuses, and joysAnd reveled in the fact that those small years could still excuse such joy.There, the apartment brought to a heavenly headAn open heart's last, desperate pump,And I, made of that useless lump, a ship in a bottleTo set sail,To see,To sink, To drink the saltwater and remember how dry I was.
Apartment 23 was a pit from which I never desired escape.When I did, shock besieged me,Though not as shocking as the returning beatOf a heart I long thought dead meat.That place still exists, a hovel on a distant shoreThat visits me in chablis dreams, though they are few and far-between now:Better for a consistent pulse.And I remember:The best places, you keep forever,But they never keep you.

It's Only Fair (#NaPoWriMo 27)

It's Only Fair (#NaPoWriMo 27)

When both of you are good to go,
Don't be too fast, don't be too slow.
Enjoy yourself and take your time,
And keep in mind this helpful rhyme:

Someone you love, you want to keep
Close in waking, close in sleep.
So, if bliss is to your kisses follow,
Never spit when you can swallow.

His Side (#NaPoWriMo 26)

The greatest sorrow is a lopsided bed.It does its own weeping,While I lay on the edge of sleeping,Alone in the insomnia you left behind.

Hints of Heaven (#NaPoWriMo 25)

Today's poem is a cento, a poem comprised of lines from already existing poems. My cento "Hints of Heaven" is composed using lines from poems in Walt Whitman's collection "Leaves of Grass."

Hints of Heaven

Have the elder races halted,Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power?What gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand?I believe you are latent with unseen existences,You who celebrate bygones.I sing the songs of the glory of none, not god, sooner   than I sing the songs of the glory of you.
Will you give me yourself? Will you come travel with me?Will you turn aside all your life?A man is a summons and challenge.We will sail pathless and wild seas, And never be quiet again.

Kept (#NaPoWriMo 24)

Today's suggestion for NaPoWriMo is to write a lipogram. A lipogram is a poem that explicitly refrains from using certain letters. I wrote the following passage without using the letter "A."


Kept

For eons of blinks, I've stood looking out. Every night biding, every night begging, every night buying one more bottle of whisky to honor your turn to the window. Our connection, though brief, would be worth the cheers. But if you do not turn, if my biding, begging, or bottling continues, I will still drink. I must.


I know why you do not turn your eyes to me. I know why keep yourself bottled up, why you do not look out the window. I deduce you'd wish to dodge me, but it wouldn't do you much good. You know you couldn't see me if it were the thing you desired most in the world. 


It's not, though. You likely desire for me to return your eyes. 


But you know I won't, so you keep yourself turned, keep those soft pits hidden from my worship. It hurts, but not enough to let you win. 


So, I will continue to bide. I will continue to beg. I will continue to drink.


Do you not see, my sweet? You were right to keep yourself turned. To the end, we should both keep to our bottles. 

She Used to Twirl (#NaPoWriMo 23)

[image error] Today, I wrote a poem using a work of art as inspiration. This painting comes from Vince Coates, a local (and very talented!) artist in Frederick, MD.
My girl was candy,Sticky more than sweet,Bonding tooth to toothAnd tongue to roof.Swallowing her is possible,But she can never be digested.She leaves me sore,Stuffed, yet wanting.I beg for just a few more bitesUntil I split,And of her,Only a stick remains, unraveling:Moist paper where my girlUsed to twirl in me. 

Amaryllis (#NaPoWriMo 22)

Thank you to my friends Nick & Lucinda for having a beautiful (though wilting) flower in their home for which to inspire this poem.

Amaryllis


Asleep in a year-long night,
She stands, gazing at stars thought eternal
While outsiders with hope-filled eyes cling to buds.
Then, the sun.
The trumpet of red petals.
The bow to a distant dawn begging for embrace.
She not only stands.
She reaches.
She touches.
But the sun is fickle, and night a bottomless belladonna.
She is crimson for a week,
Then, weak as her gray sets in.
Lips peel back in a swan song,
And her green fingers fan in a farewell to the sun,
Short visit though it was. 
The hope is gone when her dance is done
And the trumpets die away.
One last note in the dusk.
One last petal on the dining room table. 

Happy Bard-day!

To commemorate the day of William Shakespeare's birth AND death, here is a selection from my historical fiction novel "Verses of Villainy", which features playwrights Will Shakespeare and Kit Marlowe competing for the affection of two ladies. It just so happens that Marlowe is interested in a lady who isn't present and Will couldn't care less about: his wife, Anne Shakespeare.

The moment Shakespeare started strutting toward a pair of young brunettes in the corner, they took notice, giggling to themselves through his entire stride.

"Ladies, do you know who I am?" he asked.

"No, My Lord."

“Have you ever heard of William Shakespeare?”

“He’s the one who wrote that poem you like. 'The lovely April of her prime',” one girl said to the other.

“An excellent recitation, My Lady. Did you know that that poem was written in a place just like this, about a girl just like you? Well, not just like you. You are far more beautiful.”

“I did not know,” she replied with rose flowering in her cheeks. “Are you acquainted with Master Shakespeare, My Lord?”

“Quite well, for nearly three decades now,” he replied and bowed grandly. “My Ladies, I am William Shakespeare and your most humble servant.”

The girls were atwitter with excitement and when they curtsied, Will fondly inspected their charms.

“Ladies, you may know this gentleman as well,” he said, beckoning for Kit.

“You are Christopher Marlowe, are you not?” one of the girls asked with wide, batting eyes, and they both glided past Will to get closer to Kit. “I love your work, Lord Marlowe.”

“I saw Tamburlaine three times. Part One and Two,” the other girl giggled.

With each fawning laugh, Will grew angrier and more envious.

“I’ve always wanted to meet you, My Lord. My sister Patricia Yorke spoke very highly of your talents.”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember Mistress Yorke.”

“She is shorter than me. Older too. I think you’ll find me a more memorable friend,” she said as she walked her fingers up his arm and playfully tapped him on the chin.

“Ladies, my friend Master Shakespeare has talent that surpasses even mine,” Kit declared.

“At poetry perhaps, but I’m in the mood for something less brief. I’d rather have a play’s length than a stunted sonnet.”

“His poems are epic, Ladies, and by no means stunted.”

“Hold your tongue, Kit,” Will snapped. “There’s no point in wasting your energy. It appears you may need every bit to satisfy these wenches. I’ll even pay for the room myself.”

“There’s no need.”

“I insist.”

“Perhaps another time. Ladies, you must pardon me, but your beauty moves me so that I am compelled to create monuments to you in my new play,” Kit said.

The girls seemed just as pleased as they would have been in bed. He kissed their hands and bid them good-day before heading back to the table and gathering his papers.

“You didn’t have to do that. Why should you miss out because of me?” Will asked.

“I'm quite well without them. I’ll see you soon, Will, and thank you for your help,” Kit replied, but before he hit the door, Will called after him.

“If you’re heading to Thomas Kyd’s, I wish you good luck. He’s been talking about you non-stop since the night you spent together,” he said mockingly, and when Kit noticed eyes falling on him in revulsion, he stomped back to Will and hissed into his face.

“I would hold my tongue were I you. We both know I am not the only poet to wake in Thomas Kyd's bed.”

“So it is true. No wonder you didn’t want a go at the girls.”

“You don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re right. You’d better dismiss my assessment of your work then,” Will said snidely and intentionally knocked against Kit as he exited the tavern.

Remember (#NaPoWriMo 20)

Remember
O, how my bones ache,But the pen twists ever on.Art lives forever.

O Love! O Phone! O Zachariah! (#NaPoWriMo 19)

Hark!
Whose phone doth ring in class,
Interrupting Mr. Tuttle as he teaches
Driver's Ed or Glee Club or
The asinine assignment that spawned Buddy Bands?
What reason could there be for such a ring,
Such a thing to tear Stansbury-hopefuls from their studies?


Look.
[image error] The gray phone rises, cumbersome but sleek,
Like the mysterious Tori Scott.
But it's not the phone that must atone for this disturbance.
Nay.
It is the tow-headed knave in the back row.
(Actually, he might not be headed so,
For his roots doth show!)


Hush.
He speaks.
His voice creaks when Kelly dances by,
Flouncing and bouncing her bangs so high that he turns,
And faces us.
He smiles that smile and whiles away the hours
In which we wait for him to say "Time In"
And whisk us away to the Max where my true basking can begin.


Screech!
Not even he could distract my view of that blonde Tom Cruise
Who doth capture my heart without subliminal messages.
His sweaters are iffy, true,
But he so easily woos me with schemes to get rich quick,
Get a hot car,
Get a quick kiss,
Sneak underage into a bar
Where we may dance with college kids,
And I may find my way into his fantasy of the future.
To be the faceless woman who will always be Kelly.
Whether I'm Jessie or Lisa or Stacy Carosi,
I will never truly be me with that Preppie.
But I care not.
Attack me, Zachariah, with whatever love you see fit.
Be my master and friend forever and I will never
Make you dance ballet to graduate.
I will never date my boss or ruin your prom.


O Love!
If you wish to make a swimsuit calendar of me, you may.
If you wish to manage my band
Or exploit my precognition,
I would allow it.
I would commission it!


O Phone!
It brought us together with a ring.
We might as well go to Las Vegas
And make it official.
Yes.
That is the wish and this miss's bliss, such joy as I could never dismiss.
I do not care that you have become your father.
While running wild is our yellow-haired and duplicitous child,
You whisper into your phone constantly,
Into that heavy plastic that I can never surpass.
Kelly and heavy plastic: those are your loves, not I.
Nor would I ask it of you.


O Zachariah,
Do not send me away.
I know I've been paraplegic and overweight
And I don't deserve you,
But I would do anything to hold your phone.
O to be that straw sitting in my lord's soda,
I'd let you cheat off my test,
I'd rat out Johnny Dakota
For one night in your anti-Valley arms.