A boat

I was a boat 

Tied to your shore 

Rocking softly 

I listened to your voice

It started off faint 

A tentative whisper

That grew louder

As you told me stories 

Mist rolled in slowly 

And I couldn't see 

Your sandy shores 

Your voice became distant 

When the mist faded 

I saw my rope 

That had once tied me to you 

Dancing down to deep waters

And I heard your voice no more 

run

I could spend days

 and weeks 

running away 

from you 

and me 

From those words 

that felt so empty  

Phrases that 

simultaneously 

froze my heart 

and freed me 

Permanence

I want to be your permanence

Not simply the glowing spark
that catches your eye

But also the fire
that keeps you warm

Not only the etherial whisper
that calls to you in the wood

But also chirps of summer bugs
that nightly sing you to sleep

A couple of summer Haikus

Warm soft sheets wrapped
as eyes flutter closed
southern night bugs chirp


Purple moon light bright
cool white concrete against her
under clearest night sky

Alex- First Date

Have you ever genuinely hoped you'd like someone? That's how it was with Alex Marlowe. I had known his family for several years, and had been friends with almost all his siblings when he asked me out. I was surfing through the newsfeed on Facebook and after a thumb swipe I saw a Sherlock joke. It was also a sibling joke about his middle brother feeling dumb in comparison to how fast Alex read. I immediately thought of my middle brother, who had the tough racket of being third of four kids with a genius little brother, smart older sister, and me. Pretty much a goody two shoes, as my sister always liked to put it. I commented on Alex's post, remarking on the commonalities of our big families. He wrote back. I thought hmmm.... I will send him a message, I'm not a middle aged, no Facebook etiquette kind of lady. Thus our talking began. Alex messaged me all day about books, life, who we are. My favorite part was when we talked about Lord of the Rings. Alex admitted how he had always wanted to be like Gandalf or Aragorn. But he admitted freely that in the Hobbit he was definitely Bilbo. I pointed out neither or the previous characters were protagonists. Biblo is because his courage and importance has to be discovered by the reader and himself. Alex said he liked the way I talked. Later he asked me out. Plain and simple, straightforward. No, “Umm you wanna chill at this party I might be at?”

          Our date was scheduled for the Saturday after my graduation from grad school. He called me everyday that week. And I loved every minute. That’s what I meant by hoping to like a person. I liked Alex on the phone so much I worried that something wouldn’t click in real life.

          When he showed up at my apartment that Saturday looking like a little old British man with an umbrella, I thought he was precious. Especially since I had to guide him street for street to my house due to his complete lack of direction. The ice was broken. He walked in and in a moment light shone right on his face and I saw the green orbs that were his eyes. A Marlowe kid trait. That was the first moment I began to realize that to me, Alex was beautiful.

         But I still didn’t know would this work, was I attracted to him. We went to the zoo and walked around enjoying the day. I got a good vibe. He had earned a trip to a wonderful river spot I call “the secret place”. We went and walked along the rocks in the creek. Alex was not a graceful wood ballerina like his sister, but a goofy squawking man. It was funny. But we talked and wove our tales of woe in love and I liked him all the more. While dangling our feet from a log, or dipping them gingerly in the creek.

         At the end of the evening I had made tacos and we sat on the couch watching Dr. Who. I snuggled in close as we watched “The Tomb of the Cybermen”, and made some goofy commentary and one inappropriate joke about foam. He won me over. We went on one more adventure/walk to the Founder’s Garden on campus. We lay in the grass and looked at the colors reflected on tree leaves. I told Alex to close his eyes so we could focus our senses on hearing and feeling. He asked if I was a romantic…yea just a bit. We walked home, and many hours of nervousness and internal battle later, I let him kiss me. And it was wonderful.

Confianza de semillas

Era una semilla

y nunca confiaba 

siempre decía

"hay pájaros"

que me comiera

si me encontraría 

No eres un pájaro 

mi amor

sino otra semilla 

que me dirige 

a la lluvia 

al sol y a la sombra 

Nuestro jardinero 

nos ha plantado 

juntos

para crecer 

lado al lado 

Jane Eyre Feminism

It has come to my attention of late that when I self identify as a feminist many people don't understand what I mean. Many think of the colloquial phrase "feminazi", they associate all feminism with radical men hating speech and deeds. In that context my feminism means i supposedly don't like men or wish to overthrow or demean all men. To that I would say you are mistaken. I am sorry that in our american culture today feminism means that to you. But it does not mean that to me.
When talking about this misconception of the phone with one of my best friends, a fellow educated deep thinking young lady, she told me that's why she doesn't outwardly self identify as a feminist. To her, that association is incongruent with her thoughts and life. I responded by telling her I understand but, I have taken a different approach. For me I'd rather take the heat and change people's minds about the very misconstrued view of feminism and the women and men who support it.
One of the most important books to me growing as a teenage girl was Jane Eyre. I love classic literature and I had often had trouble identifying with female characters at the time. Most female characters I ran into were important or loved or valued for their beauty. I wasn't all together unfortunate looking at the time but my focus was on my spirit and mind as well. I wanted to be loved and respected and valued for all of myself, not simply my packaging. It was the character of Jane Eyre that gave me such hope as a young woman. For Jane was not beautiful, she came from nothing and she did not find her value in other people's praise. Jane was mistreated and unloved but, she choose to treat others well and to love. Jane desired to be free so she worked to support herself in a time when women were practically pets to be bought and sold. Jane knew herself and her own heart and chose righteousness in her deeds over compromise of her self-respect. As I read that book I knew who I longed to be and would be. A girl and a woman who is strong in herself so that one day she might love someone else and be a real partner in a union.
Charlotte so beautifully put the feminist condition in the words of Jane to her beloved:

" Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! — I have as much soul as you — and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh: it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God's feet, equal — as we are!”

My dearest readers, this is the truth I must proclaim to you. For me this is pure feminism, EQUALITY. I value men and I value women. Our spirits weigh the same.  It is to those equal spirits that I speak earnestly and lovingly ( I hope).

Caledonia

The cavity in my chest catches the sound

Thump thump it vibrates deep and strong 

Hips sway in a lazy circular haze

Blue and green light 

Saying goodbye to lost boys

To my dearest Peter and all my lost boys
over the years I have loved being
your Wendy bird
I gave you your "medicine"
I read you stories
We played house

But my sweet friends
our games are all make believe
and one day I want to live them
I'll miss you terribly
every boyish grin
and each wild Pan crow

I must go home now
Neverland is not where
Wendy birds belong
Thank you for our one last puff
of pixie dust
and for letting me inspire you

with a kiss

"Manhandled"

I grew up hearing the term "manhandled" to refer to improperly or roughly handling something or groping another person. I never doubted the veracity or thought of the sexist undertones of this phrase until a few nights ago.
I was out with friends and started getting antsy. I needed to move. I went over to a place I usually dance at with another jittery friend. We skipped the line and snuck in a window on the side of the building and it was on.
Dancing was fun but soon I got tired of my limited dance square and decided to try another place. I popped over to a smaller less crowded bar. In it I found better music and a smaller crowd. Perfect.
I noticed a friend and started dancing with her group. My hips swayed and bobbed as I let loose all my stress and energy.
At first a kind of timid bespectacled girl latched on to me. She was sweet and occasionally put her arm around my neck to draw me closer. Harmless attention. Then I felt a person bump up close to me from behind. I expected the assuming impertinent move came from a man.
At first it seemed that way as a muscular figure in a ball cap appeared in the corner of my eye. I backed away and the new girl assured me, "It's not sexual, it's just dancing."I didn't want to be rude and I thought well, I dance with friends that are girls all the time. What's the difference?
Slowly fun dancing turned to her grabbing my ass. I was startled but responded by moving her hand and expressing my dislike of this advance. Some how to her that meant touch me more. I stopped focusing for one second and found myself hoisted by my ass onto this woman in midair. As if I being small was a child she could pick up however and whenever she pleased. I told her to put me down and pushed on her shoulder only to realize how feeble I was in comparison.
She said "Come on dance!"I said "No!" and crossed my arms and went limp until she let me down. When my feet touched the floor once again I flew to a guy friend I saw, and wrapped my arms around him shaking. The girl came and tried to apologize to me but it was too late. She had disrespected my body and I was scared of her.
I could still feel where her hand had touched my bare ass ( I was wearing a dress). While I walked home alone I had a realization. All my life I had attributed perversion and sexual aggression to solely men. Bad men perhaps, but men alone.
That night I realized disrespecting and taking advantage of there people belongs to no gender. Any time a stronger or more powerful person forces a weaker person to do something it is wrong. "Manhandling" can be done by all mankind. When the strong threaten the weak, no matter their gender, they become the aggressor.

For my wandering friend

One day we'll walk
these streets again
like we once did
when you told me
of the girl you had loved
You wove your story
and soon enough
I wove mine too
until one day our weaving
became interspersed, intertwined

For now you need to unravel
to spread your threads
and gather new colors
wrapping in and out
of iridescent beads

But I know
one day we'll walk again
excited, inspired, yet content
speaking in feverish circles and swirls
as our feet squash crunching leaves.

Warm Brick Wall

Dear friend
You are a warm brick wall
On a breezy spring night...

Una mancha

Una mancha

Dejaste una mancha

en la colcha de mi cama

a veces no la veo

roja e irregular en contraste

con el verde

La descubrí después

de nuestra ruptura

no lo entendí

hasta qué recordé 

el corazón que dibujé 

en tu pecho 

PUBLISHED SON!

HOLD THE PHONE.... MY POETRY HAS BEEN PUBLISHED ONLINE!
http://www.revistacronopio.com/?tag=sydney-louise-clifton

http://www.revistacronopio.com/?p=12159

Don't let go

if i had a time machine
i'd go back and close my mouth
i'd take your hand and kiss you strong
and never let your fingers go

Mi hoja

Mi lindo
sales de mi como
una hoja llevada por el viento...

the rain

the rain

            As a young girl and a teenager I had a very romantic view of the world. Partly caused I’m sure by the copious amount of Disney movies and musicals I gobbled up at home. In high school I imagined my future romances with all the lovely trappings of the romances and romantic comedies I filled my brain up with. The strongest image and dream for me was to have my first kiss in the rain. You know one of those Darcy declaring his love moments but with an earlier happy ending and mutual profession of love. In fact I intimated this fantasy to the first boy I dated. And we waited and waited for that sublime moment to seal our mutual affection with a dramatic magical kiss. Every time it rained we would both text each other “it’s raining” but he never got to me in time.

            Today I instituted change in my life. I cut all my hair off and ran my hands through my Mia Farrow pixie and felt strong. I dressed for class in a big sweater and combat boots and left sans umbrella. After teaching my students and enjoying our lesson I looked outside at the torrential downpour, which had begun. I walked with a student talking for a while, then finally was able to walk alone blasting my music in my ears. The rain poured and I took off my sweater to further protect my backpack from water damage. The drops rolled down my face, in my eyes, to my chest. I did not have a moment where I danced or met my true love. I didn’t kiss any sweet but shy boy who was perfect for me. I walked alone my head held high and my shoulders back. I enjoyed nature’s baptism. I felt washed anew. Reborn. Strong. Free. My life is not what that little girl or teenager expected or hoped for. But not all fairy tales have princes and not all need them. Sometimes a happy ending is a girl standing tall as she walks through the rain.

Etching memories

Please stay a little longer

I am etching you

Into my memory 

Every smirking boyish smile

All the chocolate warmth 

That swirls in your eyes

The lilt of your voice

As you tell a story 

And the geometry of your lips

Just sit a little longer 

It's almost done 

A painting of my friend Jordan Reyes

Night Wanderer

Night Wanderer

            She lay still next to him; his warm long body nestled between the lavender sheets. His soft calm breaths fill the room. She rests her head upon his chest but her eyes will not yield as she tries to join him in peaceful dreams. She gets up quickly bouncing like a sparrow across the bed to the freedom of the carpet. Blue and deep it swirls like an ocean she must cross. She pulls on a long sweater and walks languidly to the next room guided by a stream of orange that spills through the window onto the floor. Without thought she pries open a rickety blind and looks at the fuzzy halo that lights the night. Her mind bathed in colors.

Explosions

Explosions

He spoke to her in explosions. His words like crazy firecrackers popping around the room. “Wanna go bowling with me?” “Wanna go grocery shopping with me?” She knew very little about this boy except that he mispronounced her name and made strange comments about her paintings. She was always so startled she loudly squeaked back “No!”. One day she waited locked out of a building, freezing. As she stood up to leave who should walk up but him. Her hair freshly cut and her body adorned in a black leather jacket, he looked right at her. His face slipped into a Cheshire cat smile and he purred, “I like your hair”. She stammered an awkward thank you and followed him into the building; they had never been alone together. She began to get out her supplies to begin to paint; the building was so silent. He said nothing, wouldn’t even look at her. She watched him walk into the bathroom and shut the door. Then she waited and waited. Twenty minutes later, he came out. 

Micropoem: Blind

Here is a mircopoem I wrote for my brevity class with Dr. Correa-Díaz:

Blind

Faces fade to puddles

patches of color

shirts, skin, hair

fuzz and glow

as they radiate into space

blended like halos

into cream walls

My Hill

My Hill

The home I grew up in, in Kennesaw, is situated in a neighborhood built on Pine Mountain. When we first saw the house with the realtor my Mom looked through her future bathroom window and saw my little brother Gage scaling the orange dirt hill in the backyard and nearly had a heart attack. In comparison with our former home in flat Houston Texas this hill was an enormous adventure.  We climbed it and explored the woods. Around the bend of the hill we found a creek we loved. We created all sorts of games for the hill violent and otherwise. My middle brother Austin used to ride down it using his bubble butt like a sled. I did not participate in the most violent of hill sports, called King of the Hill. That game entailed a man on man wrestling match to see who could push the other off of the hill. I did however throw many dirt bombs (which are just big dry clumps of dirt).

            As a young teenager the hill’s meaning changed for me. It was no longer a place of adventure but of solitude and escape. I was battling my introversion pretty hard back in those days. Whenever I was forced to talk to a loud person or order pizza on the phone I would have these panic fits. My parents worried and pushed wondering how such a strange bird would be able to interact with the general population on her own. They would say “Sydney how are you going to do mission work if you can’t even talk to a stranger on the phone?” I would cry and tearfully shout, “Moses had a speech impediment!” Then I would run to my hill and sit under my big half-dead tree. When I looked out I could see the trees and down across my whole neighborhood. I felt safe in my solitude and I would cry alone until I was calm.

            I went up on my hill again today and tried to look out on my former world. I stood by my dear tree and discovered my view now obscured by a mini forest of young pines that have been growing for several years now. Peering through these young trees I wonder at how much my hill and I have changed and grown. What was once a giant mound of Georgia clay is now a young forest green and lively. I no longer need to run away from pizza men and loud talkers (while I still may not like them). I have learned how to teach and to express myself, to act and think with confidence. Then I think maybe my hill and I look a little different but maybe we are really still the same. My hill still has dirt that is cold on my butt when I sit down. Birds still sing up there and soothe my heart. The sun still shines down and paints its golden streaks into my dark strawberry blonde hair. And I am still a girl who runs away from life to sit alone on a hill.

Now and then

Now and then 

lying awake 

I just want someone 

to tell my thoughts

when night has come 

and music plays softly 

from my laptop

to lull me to sleep 

To share a joke 

tell about a movie 

or simply to look at fondly 

smiling sweetly 

at a face beautified

by the feelings

in my heart 

 

Haiku

I made a bet with one of my professors that I would write 5 Haikus. I used to always shy away from Haikus because I felt that they restrained my expression. Throughout writing these though I discovered that it could be a rewarding a poetic form that is perfect for expressing a variety of emotions, thoughts and experience.

Bright winter sun glows Golden hair shimmers and flows Numb fingered walk

Luz media pálida Con los árboles baila Abro mis ojos

Por qué me miras Con los ojos grandotes No se qué hacer

Bathtub drains slowly As pink legs stretch out and drip Incendiary thoughts swirl

Orange light refracts As streams of black water flow Asphalt bathed new

Insomnia

Insomnia

I've never been a person who had much trouble sleeping. In fact in general my sleep problems have tended to lean more towards the side of narcolepsy than insomnia. I have fallen asleep in more church services, long classes, and car rides than I'd like to admit. And I am one of those classic nodders when I fall asleep in public. Like those stork toys with the hats that dip their beak into a cup, I lean forward and snap back for several minutes before someone pokes me. At one time my near narcolepsy almost cost me my life. I was driving home from a long escape weekend at my parents. I was on 316, which all Georgians know is the most monotonous stretch of highway on the planet, when I lost consciousness. It was late afternoon and the sun was still up. I was only 15 minutes out of Athens. I had been singing extremely loudly to the radio the whole way, keeping myself active and alert. Then a song came on I didn't care for and I shut my mouth for the first time in an hour. Within moments my lids were heavy and I awoke to the alarming bumps of my car drifting into the median of Georgia 316. Shocked and terrified my right arm ripped out a correction to my trajectory of doom. Unfortunately, as I had always known driving was not an instinctual gift for me. I overcorrected and my red Toyota corolla spun out wildly back into the road and across both lanes. My legs felt numb as jello as I swung like a lifeless rag doll, helpless to change my own fate. My little plastic vehicle slammed into a tree, by grace or luck I was not hurt. The car had spun so that the trunk of the car was stretched around the tree instead of the engine. I got out slowly, an elderly man came up to me concerned and inquisitive. "You were texting weren't you honey?" "No sir I fell asleep at the wheel". I walked around like a zombie trying to gather the pieces of my car as if I could put them back on.

Recently while preparing for my masters exams I developed my first real case of insomnia. I had experienced little bouts of it on special occasions growing up, but always as part of joyous anticipation. Christmas eves for me were magical nights of tradition and joy but rarely full of sleep. I would lay in bed next to my sister and hallucinate reindeer noises or the light of Rudolph's nose in the distant night sky. For many years the first day of school produced the same effect for me. I would lay in my bed anticipating the new sliver of my life story which was about to start. My outfit for the next day perfectly laid out with matching shoes and a coordinated makeup plan in mind. This time was all together different. I knew my time was running out so I filled all moments of the day with information and analysis, hoping to over prepare and conquer my dragon the classic middle child way. Underestimate your skills and over prepare. Every night I lay in between the aged soft floral peach sheets on my bed to no avail. I rolled from side to side in fetal position, then I would lay face down in the pillow. I would even lay flat as a dead lady placing my hands on my hip bones that protrude when I lay down, no matter how many stress pounds I put on. I have spent all my life listening to things as i slept to keep my mind from being frightened by the miscellaneous sounds of night. I put on my Tina Fey audiobook (which i know by heart basically) for several nights with no luck. Finally following my mother's advice, I tried to sleep in silence. Never has my mind or imagination been more active. I would start by wishing it was morning so I could go ahead and eat my raisin bran and get to work. Then my mind slowly drifted to nostalgia mode, as I imagined all the boys I have recently cared for. I even danced beautifully with one in my mind (something I have never done). I remembered the sensations of their presences and then the sadness of their inevitable exits. My mind eventually floated on into its meaningless night track and I slept for a few hours. It's funny that it took insomnia for me to truly experience the beauty of daydreams. Doors that opened back into my past, and painted with my feelings scenes more lovely and less real than their realities.

Preserved

You are preserved in my memory 

Like a leaf in a book

So when I close my eyes

And music plays 

It wraps around me 

Then you and I return 

Speaking in silly accents 

As we look at the stars