Is That a poem in my pocket? Why yes it is!

I recently entered a poetry contest put on by an eco denim brand. Each designer for the brand puts a bit of their personality into the jeans, and the fabric itself is made from scraps of leftover material from previous jeans, combined with recycled cotton fabric. Pretty interesting. If I win, my poem would appear on their jeans' pockets, along with a tag with my name on it - how cool would that be?! It's not the most amazing poem I've written, and I was restricted to a very short word limit...but I think it turned out alright. Here goes:

My mother – Earth,

My father, fashion,

From love I’m birthed

With pride and passion.

I’m old, yet new

From many I’m paired

Once green, now blue

I’m born to share

My maker’s creed

Stitched into the seams:

Art, love, respect –

It’s in my jeans.

Destined, designed,

I’m fated to find,

A soul whose genes

Fit perfectly with mine.

--Rachel Anderson

To all the Katies...

"Ladies, I'm having an epiphany. The world is made up of two types of women. The simple girls and the Katie girls. I'm a Katie girl." // Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the City //

I wrote a poem dedicated to all the "Katies" in the world - including myself. We're complicated, layered, colorful and diverse. We have many wonderful, diverse traits and talents, and are often highly creative and intelligent. But we're also a bit neurotic, and difficult. We don't just sit back and smile and "whatever you want, honey." We demand and ask for a lot - sometimes justified, sometimes not. Yet, when do you know when you're simply asking for what you deserve, or are being too demanding and high maintenance? Where do you draw the line between self-respect and stubborn selfishness? Either way, I think life would be much calmer, stable and happy if I were less complex - if I were a 8 color crayon box, instead of 64. Maybe there's a happy medium, or maybe I just need to decide which crayons are most important (forest green? yes. magenta? maybe not.) But you can't know which crayons you need until you try them out.



"The Simple Life"

I wish I were a simple girl,
Solely defined by curves and hips;
My only flaw, a freckled jaw,
Whose constellation lured men
To my lips.

I wish I were a simple girl,
Who never asked - just gave;
Who needs respect, no,
Just a neck – pearled
Proof of my title: slave

I wish I were a simple girl,
Who never spoke her mind,
Opinions are a dying breed,
To keep a man, you must concede;
And noose your voice with twine.

But if I were a simple girl,
I’d die a double suicide;
My pride, my brain, both slain in vain,
But behold: the most beautiful bride.

Poetry time, kids...

"The ship of true love never did run smooth." - Shakespeare

I'd say...

The best way to describe my love course? Tsunami. But with my pen as my paddle and my heart as its compass...I always manage to find, and write, my way to dry land. People can try to help me with optimistic cliches, or self-help books by those holding a Ph.D. in B.S. But if you're a creative like me, then you know the drill. When we're stranded at sea, only we can steer ourselves to land. We must sink to the bottom - feel it, taste it, fear it. But go there we must. And only from going there, into abyss, can you truly ever emerge on top. Poetry becomes my paddle, as an artists' brush stroke is a breast stroke, bring them closer to clarity and dry land. The good thing about being compeltely, and uttery drenched, is that at a certain point, you can't get any more wet. Shivering, panicking, cursing...nothing can change it. At some point, you just have to accept your saturated state, and remember to relax: you're alive, you're breathing.


"Surrender."

After the anger subsides,
And the fists unclench,
The spiraling rage,
Unravels repentance

Asleep, my ‘locks
Mop up the tears
By morning’s breath, our battles
Reek cavalier

The sunrise slaps my face,
And drags me to the sink
Cheeks red, and drenched,
I panic, I blink

I blink, and I stare
I gawk, and I glare,
Interrogated eyes:
Confess the slayer!

Crawling to the couch,
I cushion my pride,
But slowly, she slips
Through the cracks in the side.

Shuddering, I cloak myself
In quilted guilt,
Each patch, patterned proof
Of this enemy I’ve built

I burn the blanket,
And bury the bitter,
But this heart, while flawed,
Will not die a quitter

With a crushed heart, and ice
I swallow my words – my knife
Drop your ego, your gun
Let me into your life

True love must bend itself
to compromise,
I’ll walk six steps,
My plea: take five

For the table of love
Seats not four, but two,
Wear your heart, check your pride,
Stripped down: me and you

For now, I’ll silently sit
With hope, and not hate
Does your heart have the muscle
To step up to the plate?

From the Lips of a Goddess

I personally love Anne Sexton's poetry. Utterly, unapologetically confessional. Perhaps it's because I often find my own poetry completely vulnerable and personal. As they say, "Writing is easy; you just open an artery and bleed."

This poem beautifully describes the love-hate affair writers have with words. Both enemy and lover, words can inspire, transform, disappoint and frustrate. Yet, words are our palette. We depend on them. We pretend we are the wordmasters, when really...sometimes I think I'm the puppet, and the words are my master.


"Words"

Anne Sexton


Be careful of words,even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be as good as fingers.
They can be as trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.

But they can be both daisies and bruises.
Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.

Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren't good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.

But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.

Rachel: Chart Warrior

In a few weeks, I'll be celebrating my two year relationship...with my job. Yes, my friends, two glorious years as a receptionist and medical records "expert." While, I'm thankful for my boss for taking a chance on a lowly college graduate with no medical experience, I outgrew and outqualified this job nearly six months into it. High on stress, low on pay. High on work, little on respect. I can handle being short - but not the stump of the medical totem pole.
However, by far the worst part of this job has been witnessing my creativity drain out of me like a catheter. After awhile, realizing my own mental mortality, I diagnosed myself as creatively brain damaged and promptly wrote myself an Rx for fun. I jazzed up clinic life and injected some much-needed Scrubs sass into this barren tundra.
For example, sometimes I need to direct calls elsewhere - to the nurse, scheduling receptionist, or business office. I've devised a warning code system for certain patients/parents. For example, "Code A" stands for accent. This is not meant to be prejudice; rather, it flags the clinic member to listen carefully and tone down on the multi-tasking while on this call. Code "B" is a favorite, and stands for "bitch." While self-explanatory, this code advises the clinic member to be respectful, but to also not take any of their verbal sh*t they try slinging at you via phone like a pissed off monkey.
Now that I work back in Medical Records, I've invented names for myself, and the [very] important things I do. If a doctor needs a chart STAT, I consider myself "The Chart Wrangler," or "Rachel: Princess Wrangler." This inflated title motivates me to deftly locate the chart with extraordinary efficiency and accuracy. I suggest you try this with your own job title and job description. For example, you aren't "just" a dog walker, missy. My, you're a certified canine cardiovascular trainer. Try THAT one on for size at your next neighborhood soiree!
Sometimes it can be quite tricky pinpointing the exact location of a medical chart. In these infrequent cases, I "send out the search dogs." These highly specialized canines are actually my co-workers with whom I'm closest. I'll shoot them a secret email, asking if they can help me locate the chart. But it's always in secret. To the doctor, to the nurse, they're simply my "search dogs." It's best to keep those sorts of things under wraps.
I'm in charge of all records and dictation on new patients that come into our clinic. Once they are seen by our cardiologist, I review the dictation and determine whether they will be a "frequent flyer" at the clinic (regular patient) or "one-timer." Sometimes, it's hard to tell; they may or may not return. In these cases, I've created my own section in Medical Records: the simmer shelf. Are they done, or still need to boil? We aren't so sure. Better let them simmer for awhile until a more conclusive decision can be made. Nurses laughed at first, but now find this simmer pile quite helpful.
You see, working in a medical clinic doesn't have to be so dull. You just have to invent your own ways of fun. I'm the Jim (or Pam) of the clinic (if you watch Office Space). You gotta spice it up in order to save your sanity.

Mondays with Millie (cookie if you get this one)

We all have goals in life – ambitions, aspirations, and dreams, aimlessly floating around in our head like a springtime dandelion seed. Some are lofty; others are lame. Naturally, since I’m a writer (insert attitude and ego), I aspire to write a book. A memoir? Perhaps. My dating life – and family – would provide more than enough material. However, memoirs are a dime a dozen these days. F*cked up childhoods, overcoming illness, married a murderer…yeah, yeah, yeah. Save it for your overpriced shrink. No, I’ve decided that I will write a novel, peppered with snippets from my own life. It will be marvelous, and catapult me into early retirement.
In fact, I’ve already found my real-life muse: Millie. Okay, so I don’t actually know her name (minor detail); however, in my story, she will be Millie. And she will be amazing. As long as I don’t back my car into her again, as I nearly did on Tuesday.
You see, right now, twice a day – morning and sunset – Millie walks past my house. Accessorized in ridiculously oversized shades and forearm crutches, she hoofs it as fast as her eighty-plus body will allow her to. Even though I can’t see her eyes, I can still feel their determination and confidence.
Millie intrigues me. She strikes me as bold, brassy, and sassy. I’m flooded with curiosity about her life, undoubtedly filled with adventure, adversity – and amor. I imagine her younger years were spent being strikingly beautiful, yet daring and intelligent. She’s probably lived ten lifetimes in one.
In my novel, a twenty-something young woman amidst a quarter-life crisis hits Millie with her car – but just barely. Millie gives her attitude, and punishes the woman by making her come weed her garden. The two gradually form an unlikely, but strong, friendship. Millie teaches her about life, and gives her inspiration and direction. And yes, because it is a novel which will later turn into an Oscar-winning film (starring Judy Dench and Scarlett Johanson, naturally)…Millie dies. But her legacy lives on in the rejuvenated young woman who’s finally able to let go of fear, and live out her dream. You’ll have to read the book to find out more. :)

Cleanup: Infidelity on Aisle 5

I have a confession: I cheated on SuperTarget. With Cub Foods. I know - it's horrible. It's like when Hugh Grant cheated on Elizabeth Hurley with that nasty prostitute. The smell of newspaper coupons had enticed me - as did my dwindling bank account. In a moment of weakness, temptation took over, and I gave in to the curious thrill of the unknown, the excitement of the unfamiliar. Looking back, I now shudder in shame.
It was awful. The garish, unforgiving fluorescent lights that turned my skin a sickly shade of yellow. The barely audible, yet painfully boring music. As I browsed up and down the aisles, a growing sense of guilt and regret filled my ugly, archaic grocery cart. An old lady with moccasins and crooked knitted sweater giggles - to herself. As I hurried by her, I caught a whiff of...wait, is that cat urine? Off in the distance, I see an old man fishing out shelled peanuts with his wrinkly, dry hands. He licks his fingers, then proceeds to the next aisle. I start to panic. Looking around, I realized I was by far the youngest - and clearly most sane - shopper in the store. As I enter the cracker aisle, I see Cat Piss Lady again, then quickly dart off, sacrificing my French Onion Sun Chips for the week - a longtime favorite, but too risky right now. I blindly browse each aisle, cursing Cub's illogical aisle system. I frantically search for the rest of my items, fearful of what - or, worse, who - each aisle would reveal. I felt like Ms. Pac Man, waiting for the next ghost to come gobble me up.
The clerk, painstakingly slow and apathetic, did not even bag my groceries. He seemed to be sweating a lot (probably from the stupid lights) , so I was actually relieved. Bread, milk, fruit...I didn't care. I rapidly stuffed the bag and fled to freedom - but not without first being bombarded by an obese child attempting to win a grotesque panda bear from the crane machine. The panda's eyes seemed to be staring at me, mocking me - or were they? I think the lights and stagnant air were clouding my mental clarity. I dash through the sliding door, and am welcomed by sunlight and a slight breeze. I sigh in relief.
Like most adulteresses, I felt guilty; dirty. Soiled in smutty shame, I showered the moment I got home. I'm sorry SuperTarget. I'll never go to Cub Foods again.

Who's Hungry for Some Poetry?

Confessional poem? Mmmm, sounds delicious. Feast your eyes, and heart, on my latest poem. I wrote this after a few too many glasses of Riesling...but as the wine flows, so do the emotions. As they say, "Writing is easy - you just open an artery and bleed."

I think I’ll stay in bed today,
And hide beneath my quilt,
Can’t force a smile,
Or fake denial,
No, today…
I sleep with guilt.

I think I’ll cry alone today,
And let each tear drop stain,
The pillow that sinks into my face,
Salty shots of self-disgrace,
Today, I taste my shame.

I think I’ll wear your shirt today,
Drench my skin with your sweet scent,
And just like a martyred masochist,
I’ll torture my heart, and reminisce…
Today, I wear lament.

I think I’ll drink cheap wine tonight
Until my heart numbs; forgets,
The taste of your lips
On the small of my hips
Today, I kiss regret.

I almost saw the sun today,
Almost, and yet, not quite,
He peaked and peered,
Then disappeared,
And sank into the night.

I almost laughed aloud today
The sound felt faint, and weak,
But that smile, while brief,
Soaked up the grief,
Saturated cheek to cheek.

I think I’ll try to wake today
But sun, I feel so weak…
“My dearest friend,
Come take my hand,
And as we rise,
You’ll understand,
The strength you’ve been
So desperate to find,
Already dwells within your mind
Time moves slow,
But, it’s on your side,
Each day will bring
More hope, new light,
Don’t suffer in silent solitude,
Turn to friends for fortitude,
They’ll remind your
Heart just how to laugh,
And with time,
You’ll learn to grasp,
The wisdom tucked beneath the blue
With sadness, with pain,
Comes focus and view,
Next time your heart feels
Punched to death
Hang on tight, and
Take deep breaths,
My child, open your wounded eyes…
You’re stronger than you realize.

Great Poem...

I stumbled upon this poem tonight, and felt compelled to post it, given my recent life events. It's written by Edna St. Vincent Millay, a very famous American writer, and the first female poet to win the Pullitzer Prize for Poetry. Her poems are very lyrical and honest, which I love. It's a beautiful poem...even for those of you who view poetry as homework or lame ;)

Well, I have lost you; and I lost you fairly;
In my own way, and with my full consent.
Say what you will, kings in a tumbrel rarely
Went to their deaths more proud than this one went.
Some nights of apprehension and hot weeping
I will confess; but that's permitted me;
Day dried my eyes; I was not one for keeping
Rubbed in a cage a wing that would be free.
If I had loved you less or played you slyly
I might have held you for a summer more,
But at the cost of words I value highly,
And no such summer as the one before.
Should I outlive this anguish—and men do—
I shall have only good to say of you.

I Think, Therefore I Am...Cursed?

In a letter of recommendation to a doctoral school I was considering, my psychology professor wrote, verbatim, that he would "easily place me in the top 5% of students I have ever taught." I graduated college with a 3.92 GPA, inducting me into Phi Beta Kappa, the oldest and most prestigious honor society in the United States. At age 15, I was one of the youngest poets to qualify for the high school poetry contest, yet won first place. I was offered a highly coveted copywriting internship my very first quarter at advertising school, yet dismissed and declined it instantly (for various reasons). I barely weight 100 lbs., yet never feel thin enough. People praise my smile, or blue eyes; they envy my all-natural, D-cup chest that manages to defy my petite, barely 100 lb. frame.

Am I saying all this because I'm obnoxiously vain, proud and conceited? No. I say this because I'm quite the opposite: insecure, anxious and fragile.

See, ever since I was a little girl touting side ponytails, polka-dot leggings and Troll Doll headbands (hey, they were cool...kind of), I've been afflicted with microscopic self-esteem. Or, perhaps a more accurate way to describe it is a self-esteem that perpetually oscillates...weekly, daily, hourly.

I think too much. I think that I think too much. I think I should think less. I think, then I think some more, then I think I should stop thinking...so I think about stop thinking...but that just makes it even harder to stop thinking. My mind is like a manic hamster on a wheel...except, it can't decide which direction to go...so it constantly changes its mind, analyzing each decision then immediately regretting that decision...eventually, the hamster becomes so anxious about decisions, choices, thoughts...that it paralyzes itself into motionless indecision.

Anxiety is a real bitch. She really is. And depression is its ugly cousin...you know, the one with the weird teeth and awkward jokes, but you laugh anyways out of familial obligation and pity. I joke...but it's actually quite serious. I look at people who are seemingly normal, content, laid back...and I observe them with both envy and foreign, anthropologic curiousity: how do they do it? What's their secret?

A psychology professor once told me that depressed/anxious people actually see the world through a more accurate lense than mentally healthy ones. According to him, and other psychologists, in order to be mentally healthy one must adopt a certain "rose-colored glasses" mentality. In other words, one must trick the mind into being optimistic. Therefore, if I do find myself genuinely happy or content...I know the feeling is fleeting, and that I'm living in denial of my inner darkness. God, I sound so emo...

Do I see the glass half full? No. But do I see it half empty? Not really. The bigger question is: what kind of cheap wine is in the glass? :) Again, I joke, but I have to. Laughter saves me.

I think there's enough rambling here to entertain and confuse the majority...so I bid you all farewell. Rachel, out!

--Rach

Makings of an Alcoholic...?

This is how I know I'm becoming an alcoholic:
Last week. Possibly Wednesday, or Thursday...not quite sure. My anxiety seems to warp and blut any perception of time lately. Anyways, I'm using the drive-thru at Taco Bell, and I think, "Man, I could really go for a beer with my taco." Then, in a moment of sheer brilliance - well, stupidity - I think to myself: Why don't they sell alcohol at fast food? They should really put that on the menu!! Not only did this thought birth from my twisted mind, but it stayed there for the better part of thirty seconds. For those thirty seconds, I felt like the smartest, most innovative person in the world. Then, common sense slapped me - or splashed a dirty martini - in the face. Rachel, it's a freaking DRIVE-THRU...why would they SELL ALCOHOL?! DRIVE-THRU, Rachel.
The funny, or sad, thing is...I still think it's a brilliant idea - kind of. It needs to be tweaked a little, but the twisted part of me still thinks I'm really on to something here...uh oh.

Back from the Dead

Wow, I can't believe I haven't posted anything since October...since BEFORE Peru! That's pathetic. I apologize profusely to my four or five groupies that actually read this.

I've been meaning to write more, especially now that I'm going to school for, uhhh, copyWRITING. Yeah. I should definitely write more. Why don't I? I could rattle off a laundry list: lack of time, lack of energy/motivation, blah blah blah. But, the REAL reason? FEAR. Yes, fear. I fear that my writing will suck. Advertising school doesn't help, either. I'm an anxious, sensitive person (two of my best traits, if I do say so myself...:::sarcasm:::) I really am. And aparently I've decided to pursue a career that requires thick skin, acceptance of job instability/layoffs, long hours, big egos, and competition so fierce you could slice it with a blunt, overused butter knife. Anyways, more on that later...

I'm finally diving back into writing tonight because I've recently experieced a major life event: a breakup. Out of respect for him, and out of my own respect for the relationship, I won't spill any major details. (Besides, publicly announcing highly personal information via blogs, Facebook or Myspace is childish and normally aimed at hurting the other party, neither of which I aspire to do or become.)

But yes, I've had a relationship breakup very recently. My best writing tends to come from the darker, sadder times of my life. Perhaps it is my mind's cathartic way of coping, and making sense of it all.

I've been working on a poem - albeit an unfinished one - regarding breakups. When a relationship dies...where does all the love go? Sure, there are final words, final kisses, final goodbyes...but what becomes of the love that still pumps through every vein of your body, your mind? I think each love is different, and finds its own escape route. Some love goes quickly; more often, it's a slow, painful process of departure. For some, the love never truly goes away. The poem below is still in the works...but I thought I'd post a rough draft. Feel free to comment.

Where does love go when lovers part?
How does it escape the heart?
Does it float away on a lost balloon,
or sink into love's lost lagoon?
Does it linger like the smell of rain,
or scar just like a ketchup stain?
Does it brand the heart in ink tattoo,
or stick to the soul like super glue?
Does it run away into your dreams,
or stitch itself into the seams
of the heart
you now wear on your sleave?
Tell me, how will my love depart
How will it
break the chains strapped
to my heart?