Tag: Poetry

A Sloppy Portrait of a Neat Man

Terah Van Dusen6 Comments

I have to wonder about the man.
When I tell you about him, you’ll wonder too.
Wonder about a very old man who spends afternoons in
the library. But why? The man is so old. Even I am here
less for the books and more for the chance of getting laid. Like college
boys. Like most college boys. Like every single single person at a bar. And now I’m just assuming. It’s animalistic. It would be a lie if I said I loved books more than men. I love my fellow man. And what he can do  for me.

The man is so old I expect to see his caregiver trailing him. Helping him up and down. I immediately fall in love with the man of course. I try to make eye contact and smile but he is ignoring me. Playing hard-to-get. Disinterseted. I rarely know which is which.

The man is so old I know I can finish this poem no problem before he goes. The rate at which he moves across the room. Earlier in the morning, I saw a lady so old as well and while passing her on the sidewalk I slowed down so she wouldn’t get whiplash or feel bad. He is so old that even now I am afraid my sudden movements might scare him and send him home. He reads a magazine. Last I looked he was literally reading a crossword puzzle. No pen in hand. Can he even see? As he turned the page I saw a big ad for Walt Disney World.

He wears a knap-sack crossed over his chest (which I imagine has boy snacks in it) and a bright blue and orange knit winter hat. He wears a gray, lined wind breaker and dark blue jeans, the soft kind, and I do not make this shit up. I keep stealing glances but again, I don’t want to scare the dying man away so I’m not gonna look, I’m just gonna guess:
dark gray Velcro shoes.

For all I know, I’m dying at a quicker rate than the man.
I wonder if he can hear the scrape of my pen on paper.
It is loud.
I wonder if it scares him.
I am guessing he is a man and he can take it.
But sometimes men are such delicate things.
Like the men who break and shoot.
His shoes are hiding behind the table with his feet.
He has a red face and is reading People.
He should be remembered for more than that.
But again, who said he was dying?
Someone in the library screams out in pain.
Everybody hears it and looks but him.

First World Story

Terah Van Dusen2 Comments

Here’s the thing: I’ll let it all out, tell the world and no one will care. It will be the same as before I let it all out. No one will care. Enough. People may care enough to fix me dinner, buy me a coffee, buy the book, write a review, maybe send a letter. But no one will find me a good therapist or marry me. No one will give me a child.

But after I put it all out there…I’ll have no reason to kill myself any longer. I won’t be harboring resentment, guilt or secrets of any kind.

What a fucking idiot.

The stories will be released and I will no longer be poisoned. I can move on. Forgive as they say.

And to top it all off–my stories will be first world problems. I let that off my chest? Please. And for what?

For one more reason to put one foot in front of the other that’s for what.

I’ve always been in danger. Foolish.

I just now checked out a fifteen year old girl (probably) in a mini skirt. I’m sick and I keep telling you about it.

Foolish.

I’m letting go of the truth. Giving it to you. And moving on to make more sick memories.

Twisted. First world style.

SPARK Update: 4 Days Remaining

Terah Van Dusen2 Comments

My assignment is to write a story (non-fiction or fiction, I’m writing non-fiction of course) in response to Helen Lewis’ One Red Elephant photograph. Just four days remain until we submit the final works—the “response pieces” if you will. I’m happy to share that I’ve written my story but as usual have overwritten and will need to cut in order to meet the 1,500 word limit. What I still need to do: edit, refine and type. Oh, and I don’t think I have a title yet. It’s always fun to title something, no?

In a few days I will share my response piece plus the photograph that Helen Lewis created in response to A Fortune Teller Once Told Me…(True Story).

Thanks for reading!

SPARK Project: A Fortune Teller Once Told Me (True Story)

Terah Van Dusen2 Comments

Here’s my submission for SPARK. My partner Helen will respond with a photograph inspired by the piece. You may or may not remember this poem but it made an appearance on my blog many moons ago. Enjoy! I hope some folks are considering learning more about SPARK–you can participate in the project from anywhere.

 

A Fortune Teller Once Told Me (True Story)
By Terah Van Dusen

 

Several years ago
I had a psychic reading
Not at one of those hole-in-the-wall places
with the flashing lights
and crystal balls

It was done in my living room

My former roommate, Sydney, had her future read frequently
Sydney had the same lady come over to our house
oh, every couple months or so
Always when nobody was home
I don’t remember how it was arranged
but the next thing you knew,
I too was signed up for a reading
Sydney promised not to tell the “medium” a thing about me
That way we could insure accuracy

The medium didn’t wear a long, flouncy dress
Or bring a satchel full of rocks and crystals,
She showed up in her Subaru car,
dressed in a North Face pullover and jeans
Said to me, this isn’t my day job

We sat facing each other in the quiet house
Nobody there except for us,
That was one of her rules
That nobody else be there

She took a few minutes to gauge me,
Had her eyes closed, seemed to be sniffing around at the air
Like she were some kind of animal.
I closed my eyes too, I was tired

Maybe its custom to start out by saying a
few nice things about the person.
Because that’s what she did at first,
mentioned a few of my qualities,
built me up a little bit.
She said she noticed that I was a writer.

She told me:
Keep writing, someday there will be people helping you.
As you can imagine, I was pleased
This lady was good

She went on to say that there was a person from
my past, a person who wished to speak to me.
From a past life, from a past life, she clarified.
The medium then, with her eyes still closed,
began speaking in a stranger, lower voice
I realized that the spirit was speaking through her:
It’s you! It’s you! I cannot believe I can finally speak to yyyooou!
The emotion that came with this voice brought tears to my eyes
Ooooohhhhh, youuuuuuuu!
Oh, oh, you are sssso lovely in this life!
The voice was truly eerie,
but my, what a compliment! Lovely?

The medium broke the contact with the spirit
She looked at me and said:
Whoever that was they sure are fond of you.
But, know that not every spirit is good.
Spirits, like humans, are both bad and good.
Let’s move on, she said

I have some advice for you, based on what I’m seeing:
First, know that a good way to gauge your happiness, is that
you are happiest when you are light on your feet.

I would imagine…

Second, you should eat less spicy food. More fresh food.

No and okay.

You are very serious, watch more funny movies and TV shows.

Now, I have given you some advice about how to better your life,
I’d like to mention just a few other things before we close:

You are wondering if you will have
everlasting love: you are not the type.
You will not be with the same man for all of your life.

I’ll show you!

You are wondering if you will be happy when you move from Arizona.
You will be happy, you will be more whole than you have ever been.

In the distant future I see you standing up on a hill,
inside of a prairie or meadow.
Your arms are wide open.
You are rejoicing because
you have finally reached the place
where you’ve been headed all your life.

I will keep my eyes wide-open for that place…

That was the last psychic reading I’ve had
The only psychic reading I’ve had
The woman told me all I needed to know,
and then some.
Knowing your future is not fun.
Whether its true or not.
I mean, there’s the good:
I should keep writing!
People will be helping me!
I’m going to stretch my arms out wide like a crazy
person while standing in a high-elevation prairie!
And then there’s the bad:
I should give up Thai food,
No relationship I will have will last.

Enough is enough,
I know enough now.
I will seek that meadow where
I will be whole and free
and I will try my darndest to have a long,
happy marriage someday.
Regardless of my “destiny”

I paid the psychic $25 bucks that day.
She told me a whole lot more
But its been so long that I forgot it.
I hadn’t written it down because
at the time I was sure I’d remember it all.

What I Really Really Want Deep Down Inside Of Me

Terah Van Dusen4 Comments

Just do normal things
Get up
Get dressed
Eat
Drink
Work
Play a little
Rest and
Do it again
And again
Stay away
From the poison
You are highly susceptible
To the poison
Of falling
Under its spell
Believe in the magic
Of yourself 
Through all of that mundane
The mundane
Is fulfilling through
Time
The mundane
Will love you back
The fast-track
Will not
The fast-track
Will make an
Old woman out of you
A quiet,
Simple life
Will give you health
And the foundation
You’ve always wanted
People will love you
If you love yourself
You’ll see
Be organized
Be adult
It’s OK
You can let go
Of that angsty teenager already
You don’t need to act out
For attention
Be a woman
Pride yourself
In your work
Save
For a rainy day
Send out Christmas cards
This year
Call your niece
Wash your face
Go to bed

Put the child to rest

No Title

Terah Van Dusen4 Comments

I believe in it all
I see the sun is rising
but am aware of its settling
somewhere else.

I recognize the man who we all see as sick
has moments of health and clarity
and that the sweet girl, she has nasty thoughts
sometimes worse than the man’s

This poem?
It is both epic and awful
Like everything,  it has its moments
My relationship is both meant-to-be and
get out now, get out now
There is no plan
but at the same time,
the lord has steered me from danger
once,
twice,
two-hundred times.

I am a beautiful, ugly girl.
I have love to give but have
many moments
of selfishness
and at the end of my life a
handful of people will hate me.
This is being human.

My Own Personal Truth

Terah Van DusenLeave a comment

Why would I drop out?
Of life?
Like my daddy did?
On a mountain
In the bush
Just a bible and a pile o books
Because of people like her
The kinds with their heads up their
arses
When my heads up my arse
I just stay home
Some people need be far away.
I’m one of ’em
It’s not you, it’s me
Making all her nowhere plans
for nobody

What I truly desire
In the middle of my being
Is to hide my plastic face
From the world
And to feel the earth
From the inside out
Where instead of looking at my
reflection first thing in the a.m.,
I’ll look at it at night
And see how the day
happened to change me
Or maybe I won’t look at all
Wouldn’t that be somethin’?

I Grew A Girl

Terah Van Dusen3 Comments

There’s a margin in
which I can change
It’s shallow,
a low roof,
gnome’s entrance,
cock-pit,
dog house,
gopher’s hole,
sugar bowl,
A pore
In which I can change
I grew a girl
A girl who will never
be any other kind of rose
Who will shed and bud the
same shape of leaf
Year after year
I will be happy,
But I will never smile like
the girl-next-door,
At fourteen
I was already the
woman upstairs

Leftover Children

Terah Van Dusen6 Comments

 A tender little angel looks for his mother
in the body of his ten year-old sister
But her tit is too small
and not equip to support him

Tears spring to the old young old sister’s eyes
as they lie on cardboard at dusk
High-heeled women walk around them
like the faceless/upperbodyless ladies do
on old cartoons
only not maternal at all
Not for them

The children use poison to stifle their hunger
and to give them something to look forward to
Men with faces not worth seeing smack them around for
being druggies and they say “it’s my parents fault, it’s my parents fault”
the men say “no, you have a choice”
and I say “no, no they don’t. Not really”

This poem was inspired by Children Underground, a documentary about homeless children living in a subway in Bucharest, Romania. It’s maybe my favorite movie. It sure beats Bride Wars or fucking American Pie: The Reunion. It will make you think, it might make you want to change the world even. This is a film that matters. *The children in the photo are the actual subjects that inspired this poem, their names are Ana and Marian.

Thanks But No Thanks

Terah Van Dusen5 Comments

Feverish feelings
flood my face
You look at me, ask What’s wrong?
You smack my pink face
Then you grimace at my face
because it is red, and ugly.
You call me nasty things
then you call the doctor to tell
her my ears are bleeding.
You kick me and offer me a hand.
Birth me and leave me on the ground
wriggling ’round, gaping mouth in
desperate need of a tit.
A spike dog-collared breast is provided
and people later ask,
What’s wrong with this baby?