Ashe Vernon's Blog, page 119
December 31, 2015
"2015: the year of holidays spent alone.
The year of loves gone unkissed.
The year of..."
“2015: the year of holidays spent alone.
The year of loves gone unkissed.
The year of “you’re a REAL adult, now.”
The year of crying in one city and
waking up in another.
The year I lived out of a car for two months.
The year I learned the weight of my own name
and it wasn’t a bad thing.
The year I met my best friend.
The year I published a book, graduated college,
became an editor of a magazine, kissed a stranger
in a crowded club, let heartbreak go,
let heartbreak in.
The year I spent my birthday by myself
in a hotel room in the city of the boy
who quoted Pablo Neruda–
told me he wanted to do to me what spring
does to the cherry trees.
The boy who lied. Or changed his mind.
The boy who stopped answering his text messages.
The year of the summer girl, her mouth,
her five AM text messages, her voice
on the other side of the telephone,
on the other side of the country,
on the other side of the door
we were both too afraid to open.
The year of the boy who does not believe he’s beautiful,
who kisses like he means it,
who sends my heart skittering sideways
every time he says my name.
The year every ounce of swallowed self-doubt
crawled back up my throat and into my bed.
The year depression put on a new dress
so that I’d hardly recognize her
until she’d already moved back in.
The year I was brutal to my body
and there was no one else to blame.
The first year I ever looked in the mirror
and saw my mother, instead of her husband.
The year I wrote too many poems for a dead man.
The year of crying and crying and
being held by strangers who aren’t strangers, anymore.
The year of barely making rent.
The year I realized I could survive anything,
but I couldn’t walk away clean.
If the future means an ongoing series of
finding new colors to paint old scars in,
then I will ink my body in tomorrows.
And some days, and maybes, and almosts.
If this year taught me anything,
anything at all,
it’s that the one thing I can’t afford
to give up on
is hope.”
- ANOTHER 2015 POEM by Ashe Vernon
The year of loves gone unkissed.
The year of “you’re a REAL adult, now.”
The year of crying in one city and
waking up in another.
The year I lived out of a car for two months.
The year I learned the weight of my own name
and it wasn’t a bad thing.
The year I met my best friend.
The year I published a book, graduated college,
became an editor of a magazine, kissed a stranger
in a crowded club, let heartbreak go,
let heartbreak in.
The year I spent my birthday by myself
in a hotel room in the city of the boy
who quoted Pablo Neruda–
told me he wanted to do to me what spring
does to the cherry trees.
The boy who lied. Or changed his mind.
The boy who stopped answering his text messages.
The year of the summer girl, her mouth,
her five AM text messages, her voice
on the other side of the telephone,
on the other side of the country,
on the other side of the door
we were both too afraid to open.
The year of the boy who does not believe he’s beautiful,
who kisses like he means it,
who sends my heart skittering sideways
every time he says my name.
The year every ounce of swallowed self-doubt
crawled back up my throat and into my bed.
The year depression put on a new dress
so that I’d hardly recognize her
until she’d already moved back in.
The year I was brutal to my body
and there was no one else to blame.
The first year I ever looked in the mirror
and saw my mother, instead of her husband.
The year I wrote too many poems for a dead man.
The year of crying and crying and
being held by strangers who aren’t strangers, anymore.
The year of barely making rent.
The year I realized I could survive anything,
but I couldn’t walk away clean.
If the future means an ongoing series of
finding new colors to paint old scars in,
then I will ink my body in tomorrows.
And some days, and maybes, and almosts.
If this year taught me anything,
anything at all,
it’s that the one thing I can’t afford
to give up on
is hope.”
- ANOTHER 2015 POEM by Ashe Vernon
"I keep thinking about what it would be like if we truly
made names for ourselves–
if we went..."
“I keep thinking about what it would be like if we truly
made names for ourselves–
if we went down in history as somebodies, instead
of soft, nervous girls with soft, nervous hands.
I think about the literary scholars, years after we’re dead,
combing through our work and seeing how
we keep borrowing each other’s favorite cliches,
how it’s impossible to mistake just who
we are talking about.
I keep wondering
if they’d see these poems as our love-letters:
if we would be like Hemingway and Mary Welsh,
like F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald,
if they would bind up our heartbreak
into its own book and sell it as romance.
This thing,
we kept it so close to our chests:
all at once, out in the open
and yet completely private.
What would those academic types think
about the way we put our wounds on display
like museum exhibits?
They tell you not to fall in love with a poet.
I always thought it was because
we’re too caught up in the language
to live in the moment.
I didn’t know it was because the aftershocks
would be written in ink.”
- LIKE F. SCOTT AND ZELDA by Ashe Vernon
made names for ourselves–
if we went down in history as somebodies, instead
of soft, nervous girls with soft, nervous hands.
I think about the literary scholars, years after we’re dead,
combing through our work and seeing how
we keep borrowing each other’s favorite cliches,
how it’s impossible to mistake just who
we are talking about.
I keep wondering
if they’d see these poems as our love-letters:
if we would be like Hemingway and Mary Welsh,
like F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald,
if they would bind up our heartbreak
into its own book and sell it as romance.
This thing,
we kept it so close to our chests:
all at once, out in the open
and yet completely private.
What would those academic types think
about the way we put our wounds on display
like museum exhibits?
They tell you not to fall in love with a poet.
I always thought it was because
we’re too caught up in the language
to live in the moment.
I didn’t know it was because the aftershocks
would be written in ink.”
- LIKE F. SCOTT AND ZELDA by Ashe Vernon
"The thing is, I’ll never forget this year,
even though I’ve spent all week trying
to figure out how..."
“The thing is, I’ll never forget this year,
even though I’ve spent all week trying
to figure out how to leave 2015 in 2015,
to let it go when midnight rolls around.
I don’t want next year to be just
echoes of this year’s heartbreaks–
the depression that renewed its lease in my body;
the friendships that went ugly and rotten from disuse;
the woman who loved me from behind an ocean
and another relationship;
all the boys with their empty promises and
their unanswered text messages;
the girl who will always taste like summer,
even if I never get to kiss her.
The thing is,
metaphorical new starts aside
this year doesn’t disappear when the ball drops.
It’s still there: standing on my heels,
slow-dancing just a few beats out of step.
This time tomorrow,
I will still owe my roommate $400.
I will still owe too many people too many apologies.
I will still be afraid to call this trembling new love
by its name. I know better
than to think next year
will be perfect.
But for god’s sake,
let it be softer
than this.”
- 2015 by Ashe Vernon
even though I’ve spent all week trying
to figure out how to leave 2015 in 2015,
to let it go when midnight rolls around.
I don’t want next year to be just
echoes of this year’s heartbreaks–
the depression that renewed its lease in my body;
the friendships that went ugly and rotten from disuse;
the woman who loved me from behind an ocean
and another relationship;
all the boys with their empty promises and
their unanswered text messages;
the girl who will always taste like summer,
even if I never get to kiss her.
The thing is,
metaphorical new starts aside
this year doesn’t disappear when the ball drops.
It’s still there: standing on my heels,
slow-dancing just a few beats out of step.
This time tomorrow,
I will still owe my roommate $400.
I will still owe too many people too many apologies.
I will still be afraid to call this trembling new love
by its name. I know better
than to think next year
will be perfect.
But for god’s sake,
let it be softer
than this.”
- 2015 by Ashe Vernon
"I know you don’t want
any more of my apologies,
it’s just that there’s this
buzzing in my mouth..."
“I know you don’t want
any more of my apologies,
it’s just that there’s this
buzzing in my mouth and
I made a promise not to hurt you
like the last girl did.
And the thing is,
I didn’t.
I hurt you different.
But I feel like I still
proved you right.”
- WHEN THE BEE STINGS BY ACCIDENT by Ashe Vernon
any more of my apologies,
it’s just that there’s this
buzzing in my mouth and
I made a promise not to hurt you
like the last girl did.
And the thing is,
I didn’t.
I hurt you different.
But I feel like I still
proved you right.”
- WHEN THE BEE STINGS BY ACCIDENT by Ashe Vernon
could you give me a link to To The Boys/Girls Afraid Of Dying? Those are both my favorite poems of yours
I’m glad you like them, they mean a lot to me
In less than 24 hours the sun and the moon will look at each other and know it is time to reset. Everything will be new and the sun beams on the morning of the first will touch your back, pouring even more light into your skin. Everything will be soft
Oh, I hope you’re right, little dove. I hope the sun and the moon kiss at midnight. I hope next year is all softness and light.
December 30, 2015
latenightcornerstore:“The poems you are about to encounter are...
“The poems you are about to encounter are the fierce time capsules of girlhood, girded with sharp elbows, surprise kisses, the meanders of wanderlust. We need voices this strong, this true for the singing reminds us that we are not alone, that someone, somewhere is listening for the faint pulse that is our wish to be seen. Grab hold, this voice will be with us forever.”
– RA Washington
GuidetoKulchurCleveland.com
Buy my first book here, through Words Dance or here, through Amazon!
December 29, 2015
"I didn’t want to be
your newest breakup poem:
long-distance heartbreak,
four AM text message..."
“I didn’t want to be
your newest breakup poem:
long-distance heartbreak,
four AM text message apology.
Us summer-struck girls
aren’t doing so well
in the cold.”
- COLD SEASON by Ashe Vernon
your newest breakup poem:
long-distance heartbreak,
four AM text message apology.
Us summer-struck girls
aren’t doing so well
in the cold.”
- COLD SEASON by Ashe Vernon
