Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film.

BODY IMAGE Poem: LIGHT POLLUTION, by Euphamia Mature

tightrope like tied note twirl tangential tiptoe
talk | your reflection
through
twisted spun spiderweb stuck-fly absurdity
scam | your reflection

escape glass enslavement soft falsehood of fractals
fear | your reflection
is lying, what

monster haunts this fun-house body
trepid mask manifests so malevolent
my-flesh does-not be-lieve it-self, bursts
skyscraper hoarding horizon like anti-hero
like the mirrors must be mistaken-

miss taking handfuls of half-full hungry for high school
bathrooms where I held the toilet seat how I wish to be held-
fingers stretched towards the accuracy I believed to live in my throat

hoped I only saw a stranger in the corner shops of Paris where

a boy who kissed me like I was glass
like I was the New York skyline
like the space I took up was beautiful, told me

“you can see Belgium from space they had so much
money from the slave trade they
lit up the whole country” said

“there are no stars in the city
but I like looking at you”

and I was sorry for the space I inhabited and I believed
all the fallacies I met eye-to-eye
all the reflections that lie and do not lie
and I stood in the mirror and wept
for the puddles we walked through and knew-

they were just
piss

BODY IMAGE Poem: I am what i am not, by Elizabeth Agre

i am not tall or thin
i do not have blonde hair
i am not intelligent
i am not a good cook
or have a green thumb
i can not sing
i do not read or watch TV
i have wrinkly skin and graying hair
i carry an extra 20 lbs.
i have a smile that is not mine
i do not wear tight clothes
or have cute shoes
I drop things
I walk funny
I am what I am not
I am not what you want anymore

LAAM

BODY IMAGE Poem: Inside Out, by Kimberly Wilder

One local seated between two visitors
she is curvy, they are thin.

The one on the left asks the one on the right,
do you do yoga?

Leaving the one in the middle feeling invisible,
outraged because the answer is yes,

but she’s not asked.
Her favorite studio is deemed untraditional.

The other visitor’s suggestion is taken
because she is traditional.

Neither visitor is aware of the harm, but
she reminds herself that she is beautiful.

Inside
and out.

BODY IMAGE Poem: My Body Isn’t a Protest, by Nickie DeSardo

My body isn’t a protest.
It’s a betrayal.

I’ve been trapped in here for years,
buried inside a harp seal,
wide-eyed with hakapiks overhead.
It was silent when I wanted to scream.
It froze when I wanted to fight.
It stayed when I should have fled.
My body isn’t a protest.

It’s a betrayal.
It’s a betrayal.

Even my body knows it,
marks its own cells as intruders,
attacks itself,
as if the outside world wasn’t enough,
it joins the conquest,
and forms an internal massacre.
Hand me the club.

I’ll do it myself.

BODY IMAGE Poem: Cat, by Zoe Bonners-Randall

Sometimes, I wish I was a cat
People don’t treat cats the way they treat people
Cats don’t have any responsibilities
They’re free to be whatever they want
And to do whatever they want

But then I realize
People judge you no matter what
Sure, some people love a chunky cat
But just as many people scream animal abuse
Nowhere is safe

BODY IMAGE Poem: Fruit of the Womb, by Caroline Hanna

At Four Weeks Your Baby is the Size of a Poppy Seed
It’s making me opioidic.
Scratching my skin dry
Craving, nesting, gathering.
Put me to sleep
In a field of petals.
A deadly red flower
Blooms from a deflowering.

At Five Weeks Your Baby is the Size of a Sesame Seed
On top of a hamburger bun.
A bun in the oven.
The dough rises.
I have grown another nervous system.
An extra set of nerves.
Double the anxiety,
And I can’t figure out why.

At Six Weeks Your Baby is the Size of Sweet Pea
Oh sweet pea, you darling.
I don’t want to eat your
Liver, or lungs, or heart.
I have seemed to misplace mine.
I can hear it beating
Deep and rhythmically
Inside of me.

At Seven Weeks Your Baby is the Size of a Blueberry
Which was the first thing to make me throw up.
Muck up purple sludge
Into the white porcelain toilet.
Harvested in late July.
Bruised in green.
Now starting to bud
And bloom into finger-shaped petals.

At Eight Weeks Your Baby is the Size of a Raspberry
You heart-shaped protector.
Give me some space, some air.
Something is breathing for me.
Taking the “Fresh Air” by Kenneth Koch
“Oh to be seventeen years old / Once again”
“But no, air! you must go… Ah, stay!”
I need you to stay
To put my oxygen mask on first.

At Nine Weeks Your Baby is the Size of a Grape
I cried in my grape-colored room
For days and days.
My eyelids are now just my eyelids,
Wet with tears.
Dried up and dry skin.
Grape to a raisin. Raisin to me.
Just me.