Blowing the Blues

Graphic of aqua smilie face with red tongue sticking out against a yellow background.

“Cheeky Face”. I made a graphic of this popular smilie, just for fun.

I wrote a poem. Here. Intending to enter as a new post. But I “cut” and “pasted” it into a document, saved it to my Poetry file.

I think I will not post anymore poems. At least for now. Instead, I will be submitting them.

Well, shit, another Twitter follower cut out. I’m down to four.

“I’m nobody. Who are you?” Dickinson asked. “I’m somebody, who the fuck are you?” some people ask.

I’m Estela. That’s all I know for sure.

I read news articles, check out what goes on in the world. I shake my head. On occasion a bit of good news. It’s a relief, I smile. Doesn’t happen often, though.

Sometimes I feel frustrated when someone says something stupid to me after a reading. One time this man goes, “I appreciate your honesty.” What an idiot jerk. He assumes my poetry is confessional. But what am I supposed to say? I can’t call him an idiot jerk. Another time a young gal goes, “You gave me permission to curse in my poems.” If that’s all she got from what I read, she didn’t hear the poem, just the words. Dumb bitch. God bless her, she’s young. But she’s still a dumb bitch. Cursing doesn’t make the poem. Cursing won’t make you a bold poet. Your boring shit will still be boring. But, again, what am I supposed to do? I can’t call her a dumb bitch.

People hear what they will hear. People will assume what they will assume. I just grin and bear it. Hell, it’s a mad world. I can’t change that. There are more important misunderstandings going on in the world, more important things than someone misinterpreting my poetry.

When I wrote “dumb bitch,” Anne Sexton’s Transformations popped into my head. “Dumb bunny,” she says of Snow White. One of my favorite books of poetry.

If Sylvia Plath were still alive, she’d be 83 today.

This morning, the blues were heavy. Had a difficult time getting out of bed.

Generally, I have to suffer to write poetry. Suffer emotionally, I mean. I don’t look for suffering. In fact, I do everything I can to avoid it. I don’t like feeling like this. But I know it will pass. And if I write poetry I’m pleased with, the blues will blow away like smoke.


About Poet Dressed In Black

Poet. Artist. Grammy of one, a granddaughter. Mom of three, son and two daughters, all grown. Individualist. Care-taker of Isabel, an agoraphobic, fear-aggressive, very nervous, delicate flower, Chihuahua mix.
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