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pookering gypsy

Month

July 2017

“Daddy” – Sylvia Plath

Usually, the first poem people hear by Sylvia Plath is “Daddy”. However, the first poem by Plath I read was in an Advanced English class, “Mirror”. After reading it & spending a lot of time analyzing it, I decided to dive deeper into Plath’s works & as soon as I did I knew I’d found a genius. She quickly became one of my favourite poets. However, I don’t feel as though the majority of my poetry is influenced by her writing style although there are a few that are clearly inspired by her brilliance.

I am a poet in a community called Out Loud HSV, which is located in Huntsville, Alabama. The third Wednesday of every month we have an open mic, followed by a 30 minute feature which showcases writers from all over. I was fortunate enough to be a part of this month’s feature, alongside the Out Loud HSV 2017 Slam Team. I usually read original work during the open mic portion, but at the open mic in June I felt two poems beating heavily on my heart. “Bluebird” by Charles Bukowski & “Daddy” by Sylvia Plath.

So, here is a quick video of me reading “Daddy” by Sylvia Plath. I had a very specific person in mind while I read this, & as usual I felt so much better & much more relieved after reading this. It was my first time reading it in front of an audience, but I’m pretty proud overall of how it turned out. Enjoy!

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on “my favourite place”

i always thought my favourite place might be six feet under green grass, away from the unforgiving world. a place to finally allow myself to rest. somewhere made for me, where no one can tell me how i should feel or try to make me feel guilty for needing them. i’ll still be just as alone, but at least i won’t be able to feel lonely anymore. a place to finally call home.

maybe my favourite place isn’t a place at all. maybe it’s the roads between point a & point b. maybe it’s the space between where i’ve been & where i’m trying to get to. trying to convince myself these miles are “progress” away from suffering, driving me closer to this distant dream called healing. 142,277.7 miles yet i still feel like i’m getting nowhere. 100 mph & i don’t care if a cop pulls me over anymore. i’ll tell him i’m tired of coasting, i have to reach happiness faster than this. he’ll probably think i’m stoned & chances are he’s right. i’ll tell him i’m just trying to feel something. he’ll tell me i’m out of my fucking mind & he’ll be right. but i’ll keep driving.

because freedom sounds so much better than being stuck in a place where i have to pretend. when i run out of gas i’ll roll down my windows & play that Alanis Morissette song as loud as i can. i’ll tell the man at pump five that this is irony. that my four-wheeled saviour has become just as empty as i am. & when that line comes on about meeting the man of your dreams i’ll tell the kids at pump three to love themselves before they try to love anyone else. because a “beautiful” wife cannot break you if you understand that you’re okay without another person. but the song will change & i’ll keep driving.

or maybe i just haven’t found it yet. maybe my favourite place is out there now, waiting for me. somewhere i haven’t had the time or space to reach yet. maybe she’s somewhere i haven’t heard of across the world. or maybe he’s just out of reach, teasing my fingertips with a sighing breath. maybe she’s the quiet weeping willow i used to sit under that i can’t get back. maybe he’s the steady beat i took for granted. maybe i’m running too fast to catch it. maybe my favourite place isn’t predetermined, & it’s the ever changing wind i haven’t quite learned to follow. maybe i’m searching too hard.

maybe my favourite place is hidden between the bars of a score i haven’t studied. maybe it’s the secrets carved into walls i was never allowed to keep. maybe it’s every sunset that has taken my breath away. maybe my favourite place is the slowly burning wick of a candle. maybe it’s buried in a mason jar full of ashes & cigarette butts.

but maybe i’m just lost.

 

 

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