pookering gypsy


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!


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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