“Lunar Shatters” by Melissa Broder

I read this poem yesterday and just had to share it with you all, sort of as my Holiday gift to you. Hope you enjoy!


I came into the world a young man
Then I broke me off
Still the sea and clouds are Pegasus colors
My heart is Pegasus colors but to get there I must go back
Back to the time before I was a woman
Before I broke me off to make a flattened lap
And placed thereon a young man
Where I myself could have dangled
And how I begged him enter there
My broken young man parts
And how I let the mystery collapse
With rugged young man puncture
And how I begged him turn me Pegasus colors
And please to put a sunset there
And gone forever was my feeling snake
And in its place dark letters
And me the softest of all
And me so skinless I could no longer be naked
And me I had to de-banshee
And me I dressed myself
I made a poison suit
I darned it out of myths
Some of the myths were beautiful
Some turned ugly in the making
The myth of the slender girl
The myth of the fat one
The myth of rescue
The myth of young men
The myth of the hair in their eyes
The myth of how beauty would save them
The myth of me and who I must become
The myth of what I am not
And the horses who are no myth
How they do not need to turn Pegasus
They are winged in their un-myth
They holy up the ground
I must holy up the ground
I sanctify the ground and say fuck it
I say fuck it in a way that does not invite death
I say fuck it and fall down no new holes
And I ride an unwinged horse
And I unbecome myself
And I strip my poison suit
And wear my crown of fuck its
Also, I highly suggest that you all follow Melissa Broder on Twitter, if you have one. And if you don’t, I suggest getting one just so that you can follow Melissa Broder. That’s what I did, anyways.
Here are some gems from her Twitter account:
glad that nurture fucked me up and not just nature
brb, dismantling my belief system
roll up 2 the club in a vague feeling of impending doom

The Figurine

By D. Lifland from 2River View Magazine

I left the jade, green elephant at her apartment.
She brought it back from a work trip to India as a gift
& I placed it on her dresser that night.
I enjoyed looking at it when I stayed over.

It was a handsome elephant with a strong trunk
& a wonderful color that sparkled
in the lamp light. It had a wise expression
like it knew something about the world.

I’m glad I never took it home.
Given the circumstances, I would’ve
placed it in a box on the second shelf in my closet
with my other things.

Not Only Blue

“Poetry is life and life is suffering” 

That was one of the three tenets his old poetry teacher had thundered out during class, until finally it became a tenet for Tristan’s own life.

“Only in the darkness can you find the truth.”

Although Tristan had diligently tried to capture true agony in the sheltered suburbs of his home, donning ripped clothes and smoking cigarettes in the process, there wasn’t enough darkness for him to write. He decided to gather inspiration by travelling to impoverished areas, hoping that their despair would seep into his poetry.

“Life is punctuated by the blue. Let the sadness permeate your soul.”

At first, he travelled to Honduras and found endless material in the poverty of the families who lived in shanties and had swollen stomachs filled with air. But after reading over his poems again, they sounded fake, not truthful at all.

Despite the feeling of dissatisfaction, Tristan sat outside in the May rains, hoping to get at least one good poem out of the trip. He sat there noticing the signs of sadness, until, suddenly, he heard a peal of laughter. There, in the rain, were a group of children dancing and squelching their toes in the mud, happy despite with their swollen bellies and lines of dirt and hardship on their face.

Tristan felt inspired. For the first time since the writing class, he felt eager to write. Could his teacher have been wrong? For he felt connected to this joy that he never had with the sadness and sorrow of his teacher’s teachings.

And as he stood there in the rain watching the children and mentally throwing away the three tenets his teacher had taught him, he came up with a tenet of his own:

“Life is blue.

But it is also red, almond, marigold, periwinkle and raspberry. It is black, white and even the absurd, nonsensical potato. Life is any color you want it to be.”


This week’s trifecta:

On to the weekly prompt, where we give you one word and ask that you give it back to us, using the third definition, in a 33-333 word response. The word is:

BLUE (adjective)

1  : of the color blue
2  a : bluish <the blue haze of tobacco smoke>
b : discolored by or as if by bruising <blue with cold>
c : bluish gray <a blue cat>
3  a : low in spirits : melancholy
    b : marked by low spirits : depressing <a blue funk> <things looked blue>

Definitely not my best entry, but I’m glad that I actually did something since I’ve been shrinking the Trifecta competition for a while now. So hopefully, it’ll only get better from here 🙂

Love Calls Us to the Things of This World

By Richard Wilbur

The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
As false dawn.
Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.

Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
Now they are rising together in calm swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

Now they are flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and now of a sudden
They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
The soul shrinks

From all that is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blessed day,
And cries,
“Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.”

Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world’s hunks and colors,
The soul descends once more in bitter love
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,

“Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
Of dark habits,
keeping their difficult balance.”

Update on my life

Hey everyone!

Sorry I haven’t posted in a while. I have no excuse besides the fact that my creative juices have not been working in my favor these past few days and thus I have no poems to share. And from that, I’m sure you can infer that I did not successfully finish NaPoWriMo. But never fear! There’s always next year—although I will be in college and who knows how much I’ll change within the span of 365 days.

Here’s a quick update on my life, just to clue you in since I haven’t written in what feels like a month.

1. Got a hair cut. Then got a shorter hair cut. And now I resemble Coconut Head from Ned’s Declassified School’s Survival Guide.

2. Had to write an inclass essay on a poem about a pig. Literally, the poem just talked about how fat and monstrous the pig was. If you want to check it out, it’s called “Sow” by Sylvia Plath. It was the weirdest poem I’ve ever read, and the weirdest essay I’ve ever had to write.

3. Finally got on to Pottermore… and found out that I was a Hufflepuff. For those who are not Harry Potter fans, people generally joke that Hufflepuff is the house where all the rejects from the other houses go, for the people who aren’t brave, smart or ambitious. So I wasn’t too thrilled, until I realized that the traits of Hufflepuff weren’t that far off from who I really am (loyal, optimistic and hardworking). And so I decided to embrace my inner Hufflepuff and make this mug:

It's a little hard to see since it's backwards, but it has the word "hufflepuff" written on the bottom, and it has the other houses' colors in the background.

And let’s face it, Hufflepuffs are GREAT finders! (Please tell me someone got the “A Very Potter Musical” reference). Also, funny side note, but Hufflepuff in French is pouf-soufflé and in Welsh, it’s Wfftitwff. So I can call myself a pouf-soufflé and not be lying.

4. Every year, senior members of the school newspaper create one last issue solely centered around seniors, college and reminiscing about high school, and at the end of the issue, one member writes a poem. And guess who volunteered to write said poem? That’s right—yours truly. Remember, none of my friends except for my best friend knows that I enjoy writing poetry, so I’m really going out on a limb here—or at least, it’s a limb for me. I still have traces of the shy kindergartener within me, though people don’t normally realize it. But you guys will most definitely be the first to see, critique and analyze this poem, so watch out for that.

And that’s about it! Again, I’m really sorry for not posting in SUCH a long time, and I’ll try to be more punctual in the future.