24 Hour Poetry

Printshop Pattie

2009-11-29T22:32:00.002-05:00

"Printshop Pattie"

By Christine Stoddard

Pattie cuts, trims, and laminates beneath the florescent lights, promising never to fall from the heights of customer dreams.

Sometimes it seems she's photocopied A Tale of Two Cities' first page so often the machine fulminates in her imagination.

It was never 'the best of times' or 'the worst of times' but the most ironic of times--why does the digital age use so much paper?

Yet, despite all the hours those pamphlets and business cards sucked from her youth, Pattie never called the printshop her cage.

It was no prison, no hell, but, rather a refuge, one of those ivory towers that soars over the half-truths plaguing the common earth.

Pattie could scurry away to the paper closet, admiring pastel and neon hues, or mirthfully rub her fingers over embossed letters.

She could isolate herself from everything but the scent of whiteout, the texture of vellum, or the fingerprints of previous setters.

Sometimes, all she wanted to know was the stab of a ballpoint pen against her pinkie, or the taste of an old-fashioned wood ruler.

Sometimes, Pattie only cared about single words, like "inches," "resolution," "border"--words that constituted her own unique Zen.

She lived in a realm of bond paper, inkjet paper, leather paper, sandpaper, wax paper, photo paper, wove paper, and laid paper.

She chose not to understand controversy, anthropology, politics, costume design, sociology, auto repair, feminism or engineering.

For Pattie, what went on paper meant nothing compared to the type, weight, and thickness of the paper involved in the endeavor.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Headache

2009-11-26T11:17:00.000-05:00

Trapped inside a Stan Brakhage film,

blues and reds electrifying my mind,

as I spin throughout the long, long day,

searching for a solid-colored bed

with soothing pillows

and soft blankets.

Once I rest my head,

the lights and rainbows

will fade out

and my brain will no longer

tingle.

4 Haikus

2009-11-24T07:57:00.001-05:00

"Tasting the Past"

Quesadilla brims

with flavors of lost childhood,

prompting nostalgia.

"Sweet 15"

Quinces bored me, but,

afraid of Abuela's anger,

I forced on my dress.

"Gringo Recipes"

Explain the secret

of pupusas to 'them,' and

they won't taste the same.

"They Died Before You"

Civil war murdered--

so I came to America--

your unborn brothers.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Mosquito Bite

2009-10-30T09:07:00.001-04:00

"Mosquito Bite"

By Christine Stoddard

I will dwell in your heart's leaky cave

amongst moonlit candles and rat bones,

eating nothing but the blood from your veins.

Call it Heaven or Hell--it's in between

Venus and Mars, too far to gauge.

Love will not save because I'm beyond it.

No longer craving your heart, it feeds me

in between its thunderous beats...

for I became the mosquito

with only nourishment on my mind.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Poetry Collages

2009-10-25T23:16:00.002-04:00

See my poems put to use! I have included some in a few of my most recent collages. If you're not familiar with my collages, take a look at Christine & Collage.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Your Typical Femme Fatale

2009-09-16T22:41:00.000-04:00

"Your Typical Femme Fatale"

By Christine Stoddard

I've been aggressive and I've been mean,

but that's not exactly unseen behavior.

You've witnessed such slimy charm

and a face and figure that disarm before

you even shook my manicured hand

or ran your fingers through my sandy hair.

So clean the grit from beneath your nails,

you less-than-saintly saint who in days of yore

chased red lips, sculpted calves, and sultry tails.

We've both tasted eye candy for the mere sake--

or, in some cases, solely to manipulate--

not out of a purely passionate longing

to love, care, and adore virgin land.

I've lied and I've stolen, but I have also confessed

that I have falsely professed emotions

that were, if reality ever has a chance to speak,

as long-lasting as grainy seashore castles.

You swallowed pills and mixed up potions

to make yourself forget your flaws and sins.

But unlike Jeff and Jake, I strut to the tune of truth.

I don't claim to be the street whore and office slut

turned righteous dove flapping in honey skies.

I'm more honest than you and those other guys.

I recognize and admit, through bleached teeth,

waxed legs, glittery camisoles, and my tramp stamp

that I am nothing nobler than your typical femme fatale.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Angel with a Silver Halo

2009-09-06T22:22:00.000-04:00

O Lord, mercifully look upon my self-inflicted blemishes--the scars upon my soul and the pin-pricks in my heart.

I admit that I can occasionally be rabidly selfish, patronizing, stubborn, and demanding of those I love.

I've always been so skilled at persuading people to make exceptions for me that I'm startled when they resist.

I recognize that's arrogant and I have to change that attitude, but sometimes I don't know where to begin.

Sometimes I think I'm justified in continuing that behavior because I figure I'm pretty decent in other respects.

Again, I know that's not right! I just wish I could instantly become kinder and compassionate, like one of your A+ angels.

Right now I'm more of an amiss angel with a silver halo and a devil tail snaking out from under my creme-colored robe.

Please show me the shortcut to walking the walk and talking the talk because I don't have the patience for the long road.

Amen.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Dragons in Iowa

2009-09-01T12:14:00.001-04:00

My egg hatched amongst the dewey corn,

in the throes of a Midwestern spring,

where slush and mud dominated the terrain.

I peeked out from my shell and gazed at the

sprawling skies, empty save for a single cloud.

Suspicion told me that is where I came from.

Perhaps the moon shed silver tears, weeping my

brothers and sisters and me onto the Iowa soil.

We are the dragons of the gold and green prairie.

Shortly after my birth, I roamed from the field

into a quaint farm town, one boasting a cineplex

with four screens, the best soy sprouts west of the

Mississippi, and a tiny ivy and brick college with

specialities in agricultural science and Christian

theology--not that any of that concerned me.

I only wanted a quiet place to hide and such a town

seemed like the perfect pocket of America to

live a humble life, under no national scrutiny.

We monsters, after all, prize every sliver of privacy.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

The Bruise Ball for the Belle

2009-08-30T17:22:00.002-04:00

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

The Bruise Ball for the Belle

2009-08-30T15:47:00.001-04:00

By Christine Stoddard

Bruises are beautiful, she believed thanks to the black and blue masterpieces he conceived

each time he, without the slightest shame, beat her to the same rhythm as their love-making.

With each smack, she exclaimed her faith in him. At each attack, she promised her faith to him.

Never once did she demand that he stop the pummels and never once did she call a cop

(not even the pleasant faced one who lived down the street and brought whole wheat cookies,

still steaming white wisps, on Halloween day, the one who always offered his help in that subtle way

when he spotted another monstrous smear of dark rage created by her sullen Prince Charming.)

She refused to be alarming, preferring the comfort of the shadowed cellar or the shaded yard,

so far from neighboring eyes that never let down their guard to those oh-so telling desperate cries.

She wanted to dream--nothing obscene, just the sweet thoughts of a girl who longed to put on a dress,

make herself up in classic colors, and innocently dance to the entrancing sounds of a breathing ballroom.

She birthed those dreams in private, out of the burning white spotlight her lover threw to ensure that

she stored the truth of ever-lurking violence in the chest of secrets inside her tragically fragile mind.

In her dreams, she was the belle, with a painted face and horse hair eyelashes and moon beams

jumping in her eyes as they surveyed every guest, imaginary nobles from the Orient and the West.

In her dreams, not only was she the belle, but she wore the biggest bruises of all, plain and purple.

Her large, cloudy bruises are what made her the belle of the ball, in fact, because it was a Bruise Ball,

where instead of feathered masks or swirls of costume paint, all guests brandished skin of black and blue.

This then, she reasoned, made her fist-happy lover not a dragon but a saint for daily enhancing her beauty.

"He makes me more ravishing," she constantly whispered to herself, "Because he puts color in my complexion."

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Lesbian Tea Party

2009-08-25T00:00:00.001-04:00

Prim Carolyn never claimed 'bellehood' in this beauty imbued neighborhood where all

the pretty girls steal away to lewdly kiss their select cutie boys in deep gardens after school.

She, the bull (with hair that tufts out like horns, and cool lips, and nostrils unsuitable for ringing)

prefers to remain unknown, despite her penchant for quietly singing to herself, as she walks

to the corner store, where she always steps in, nearly chiming, "Back for more of that Earl Gray!"

And the shopkeeper pushes up his eyeglasses and sniffs, "Oh, you're back again today, Carolyn?"

Five minutes later, Carolyn is brewing tea in the shade of her cramped little kitchen, still singing.

She does not pretend to spend her afternoons holed up in azalea bushes, bitty breasts bouncing

at the hurried hands of masculine fervency that never distinguishes between whispers and whooshes.

Carolyn awaits the lacquered nails tapping at the window, the ones so undeniably feminine in grooming.

Carolyn awaits her chance at swooning and spooning, her chance for the quivering flower within her

to begin blooming at the sight of--not sunlight--but fingers tipped with rhinestones and magenta polish.

Never does she imagine her desires for love and romance being demolished--not now, not anymore,

not after a thousand-and-one girls have denied her India ink letters and pressed dandelions before.

Rejection could not blossom in an eternity, not between a lace-and-pigtails hungry teacher and a

shy and willing child just beginning to analyze the black mystique of womanhood, in any case.

"Miss Church loves me. Miss Church loves me. Miss Church loves me now and forever and--"

Never does Carolyn expect to turn around at the sound of nails attacking the glass and not see

the lady who first spoke to her about Toni Morrison and Sula or the lovely Princesse de Cleves.

Never does Carolyn expect to turn around at the sound of nails attacking the glass and not see

the lady who first sipped her tea and exclaimed at its deliciousness instead of calling it a joke

or complaining about the latest laddy who broke her heart before Christmas or Valentine's Day.

Never does Carolyn expect to turn around at the sound of nails attacking the glass and not see

the lady who promised her that their lesbian tea parties were really, oh, really more than okay.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Our Little Johnny

2009-08-19T08:12:00.000-04:00

"Our Little Johnny"

By Christine Stoddard

I am staring at the porcelain doll, the one with a paper moon face,

the one bound in gaffer tape and strands of black, black lace that

Johnny collected from his dead grandmother's dress during one of

his Saturday corpse raids, the ones that cause his auntie distress.

We never say that Johnny is 'sick,' despite his penchant for peeling

roadkill off cement or giving small creatures a blood-drawing prick

with one of the hundreds of needles he stores in his desk drawer,

things other people would hide behind bolted and locked doors so

as not to stir suspicion within the curious mind and even curiouser

heart of the suburban housewife, the kind of wife and mother that

Johnny's own mother once was--that is, before Johnny became

the boy who scooped marrow from the bone for an art project.

We never say that Johnny is 'mental' or 'morbid' or 'plain wrong.'

We never question that chilling song he wrote and always sings,

the one about murdering the neighbor child and splattering his

red, red blood across his room's walls, the walls he, the wild one,

painted in celebration of finally cracking a sparrow's neck in a

single twist, one flick of his pasty wrist, while dancing on the deck.

Remember what he built on that deck, that Halloween eve two years

past, the year he dressed as "what Steve will look like after I kill him"?

After stowing away mouse skeletons since he was just four years old,

Johnny rubbed his pale hands together and decided to be really bold

by constructing a giant mouse skeleton out of all the ones he scraped

from his attic, where he draped traps with the same flair that one pulls

a dark, dark cloth over the cold face and hair of the recently deceased.

No, no, no, despite Johnny's obsession with life after death and despite

his habit of mentioning the ways he'd like to rupture someone's breath;

despite the fact that he has never even picked up a crayon that was not

crimson or ebony to lay on one of his brusque, devil-worshipping drawings,

Johnny--oh, our tender, impressionable, angel of a boy Johhny--is not sick.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

The Airplane Passenger

2009-08-02T10:57:00.000-04:00

"The Airplane Passenger"

By Christine Stoddard

Pull down your beige tray and stare at the back of the reclined seat in front of your pretzeled legs.

You are the icon bleeping across the screen, followed by a stream of red dashes tracing your path.

If Paris is a dot the size of a pencil eraser, how big would the Bois de Boulogne be on the map?

Headwinds rush at 20 M.P.H. and the outside temperature would lace the hearts of birds at -46.

Imagine the feathered corpses plummeting down 29,000 feet and landing in a pre-dug grave,

graves that were fervently shoveled into place by the lonely, little hands of pilots' children.

The screen assures you that you are not as far as you think, that the airplane ride is shorter,

that you should begin wafting hope into your empty chest cavity and plugging into your music

to pass the oh-so-brief period of time that awaits you and the fifty other men and women there.

But the distance to your destination is 4,000 miles and feet-on-soil is almost nine hours away.

You brought two insipid novels, a sketchbook, a computer, today's newspaper, and chocolate

to distract your mind, your mouth, your fingers, and the hair standing straight up on your arms.

Otherwise you might think about how strange the concept of men soaring through the air is,

or how dry your tongue is, or how much your fingers are trembling beneath your free blanket,

or how frightened you are to be sitting in a contraption powerful enough to slash the clouds.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

A Lyrical Love

2009-07-22T13:16:00.001-04:00

"A Lyrical Love"

By Christine Stoddard

You are a well-constructed poem of a lover

Ideal for how musical lovers sound in their cooing

Ideal for how a lover appears splayed upon a white page

Ideal in the way a lover must read with rhythm

Those elegant pools that are your eyes symbolize profundity

Your fingers are like peachy pencils, a simile

Smile and I'll spot letters carved into your teeth

I want to tap them like I would a keyboard

and challenge myself to create a more magnificent poem

than the one who curls up beside me in the moonlight

and rests a fairy's face upon a pillow soaked in dreams

Dreams of riddles and rhymes and sonnets I have written in honor

of our afternoons of holding hands in the shade of trees

or staring longingly from windows separated by an alleyway

like a scene from Stendhal or maybe Madame Lafayette

I want us to use the perfect diction in our conversations

Never falter in our tone or syntax like something

out of a poorly stapled high school lit mag

that only a proud mother would possibly buy

We are the illuminated anthology of hearts and passion

and our poem opens and closes the book

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

The Glass Player

2009-07-13T15:13:00.001-04:00

So I didn't break your heart, even though I could have, even though I wanted to for a vain thrill

You were just another doll in my trunk of tricks, in my trunk of cheap fun worth a penny each

I could see through you, like every glass trinket, like every shattered mirror, I've thrown away

How I have thrown away, how I have lent my soul to the wind, how I have nothing to give

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

By Myself Momentarily

2009-07-11T05:30:00.001-04:00

I've never been a stoner, I've never been a loner

I just like a moment away from the crazy day

From the honking cars and the smoking bars

So I can think and breathe and believe in love

The breed that every schoolgirl dreams of

When she writes in her pharmacy diary

I need a siesta and some quiet variety

The kind that swirls around my head

Centuries away from the dying dove

The sickly child, the diminishing wild

I have to be by myself momentarily

Here, amongst the softest pillows,

in my only private place: bed.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Vacation Notice

2009-06-29T10:36:00.001-04:00

I will be in France from June 29 to August 1. During this time, I will not have the chance to regularly update my blogs or submit to other publications as usual. However, I do encourage you to check out my French travel blog as I document my voyage! Please visit http://blog.vcu.edu/stoddardcs2/ for my writing and photos.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

To the Whitewash Bubbles

2009-06-22T09:45:00.000-04:00

'Escape the land of gritty blood clogged with sand
for a realm where war and envy never overwhelm
the briny brood that slips from sea shelf to shelf'--
this is what the mariner, sporting teeth so shiny

from the sesame seed oil he pillaged from India,
said to me, the lean, portrait painter at the harbor.

I asked about pirates, mutiny, and big battleships;
he laughed at me, calling each one a merciless myth
created by resentful men who never learned to swim.
'Lasso a beast to take you to the whitewash bubbles,
so you can begin to explore the ocean's natural feast.
Hasn't this soil held you captive long enough, maiden?'

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Apocalyptic Conversations with Flies

2009-06-18T15:35:00.001-04:00

"Apocalyptic Conversations with Flies"

By Christine Stoddard

There's poetry in the eyes that reflect the azure skies

and remind me of how wise I have to be to create lies

to utter to the hungry flies that hover above the man who dies

after the final hurricane sighs and I'm the only human who survives.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

A Dusty Central Park

2009-06-18T08:14:00.001-04:00

"A Dusty Central Park"

By Christine Stoddard

God picks gray lint

out of the universe's navel,

then sniffs his dusty fingers.

That's where Central Park,

the true Garden of Forbidden Fruit,

first grew into shades of black and white,

then transformed into hues of green and gold.

But the Bible never mentioned a skyscraper fence.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Love is in the Stars

2009-06-15T07:40:00.002-04:00

I put my poem "Love is in the Stars" to use by including it in one of my latest collages by the same title.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Love is in the Stars

2009-06-14T17:14:00.001-04:00

Love is in the stars, sewn into the night sky by the gentle roadside

and curtained by the charcoal clouds that have grown.

We stand barefoot, touching hand to hand without a single sigh

and wishing now we could finally embrace.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

You're Wishing on a Star I Don't See

2009-06-13T10:48:00.000-04:00

"You're Wishing on a Star I Don't See"

By Christine Stoddard

Are you saying you want me?

Are you saying you need me?

Are you saying we have to be together like Tristan and Isolt?

I've never witnessed eternity,

so how do I know it exists?

Give me reality, full of all its bubbling blisters and nasty cysts.

You paint a beautiful fairy tale.

I tell you it's the cotton in a dream.

You stare at me like I've said something unthinkably obscene.

As you gaze at the constellations,

mumbling fantasies to yourself--

sweetheart, you're wishing on a star that I simply don't see.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

My Jenny Went to CA to Become an Actress

2009-06-05T21:00:00.000-04:00

"My Jenny Went to CA to Become an Actress"

By Christine Stoddard

She struts down the sidewalk, brandishing her jutted shoulder blades,

so delicate compared to her feisty pout; those two pulsating lips redder

than Virginia sunshine, redder than the cherry two-hundred eager men

supposedly popped on the floor of her black and windowless apartment

as the lights flickered like dying fireflies the white mansions of Palisades.

"Hey there, starlet," the would-be debauchers mumbled when they met her.

"Say there, starlet," the would-be debauchers said as they haggled to get her.

"Night-night, starlet," the would-be debauchers screamed as they embraced her.

This is a script with predictable lines but that somehow never seems to end.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Greetings, Sailor

2009-06-04T17:24:00.000-04:00

"Greetings, Sailor"

By Christine Stoddard

Don't creak like a door in the night anymore, tired ocean traveler.

The Arab's little wife will lick away your strife, those quixotic tears

streaming down your tender cheek and past your crooked beak

into the mounds of good food she prepared just for your arrival.

She knows the gentle art of flavoring; how to cook like a peasant

and eat like an Egyptian queen pleasantly plucking cotton blooms

beneath the dooming sun that fluttering palm leaves barely mask.

Rest your stained heels as she rubs the arches of your meaty feet

and you sink deeper and deeper into the throes of Saharan heat.

Dream that the sweet-eyed woman feels the same warmth for you

as the long strands of steam dancing from your plate into the air.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Death of a Rose

2009-05-30T11:24:00.001-04:00

"Death of a Rose"

By Christine Stoddard

You crumple in all of my daydreams

from sun-eating to sun-eaten rose.

When your head of petals crashes

into the dusty soil, dispersing like

clouds of feathers against the sky,

I see a dead and defeated flower.

While the rest of the garden blooms,

you have already disappeared from

all the oil paintings that ever rendered

the patch of ground behind my house.

But nobody in the galleries notices.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Dromedary

2009-05-26T16:37:00.001-04:00

"Dromedary"

By Christine Stoddard

Press your tongue to the salt.

You are a camel committing suicide.

Dehydration is your death of choice.

You have walked against desert winds too long,

and can no longer bare the taste of sand.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Robot Breakup

2009-05-19T22:19:00.001-04:00

“Robot Breakup”

By Christine Stoddard

I washed my hands of your alkaline scent,

purged myself of your sinfully metallic taste,

and dumped you into my mind’s dankest landfill.

Your blinking red eyes no longer electrify my heart,

Nor do those shiny buttons lining your silver chest.

I erased every memory and deleted every file

because Frankenstein wants to obliterate his creation,

this overwrought fantasy that existed only in blueprints.

Process this: relationship terminated. Time to restart.

And the screen freezes before dissolving into bright blue.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Ghetto Rat

2009-05-12T12:36:00.001-04:00

“Ghetto Rat”

By Christine Stoddard

You stand before the mirror, absolutely polished

like the silver your mother swiped from the pawn shop.

Your skirt is starched and your hair perfectly controlled,

the antithesis of that nappy woman you know in prison.

You wonder why you work n this office, sit at this desk.

Your hands cramp from the way you learned how to hold a pen.

You stare at a computer screen with eyes framed by crow’s feet.

That could’ve been you, gazing at your acrylic nails behind bars,

looking forward to nothing but the next tray of meatloaf and applesauce,

mumbling that you’re innocent for the sixtieth time that day

even though you know the crickets in your cell don’t believe you anymore.

But you are here in a pencil skirt, learning a database entry program instead.

You eat paninis for lunch and drive a politically-correct car.

You spend weekends being a “patron of the arts,” attending “cultural events.”

Because you are not that woman that birthed you on the floor of a charity hospital

at age fifteen.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

You Call That Talent

2009-05-08T15:38:00.001-04:00

"You Call That Talent?"
By Christine Stoddard

Drop your jaw open, just let it hang like the flap of an unzipped banana peel.
Then belt out a song about monkeys twirling through trees, snagging a meal.
You're just another great, big concert ape with rouged cheeks and a fluffy wig,
the kind plucked from the zoo last minute because they needed another alto.
You breezed through the conservatory not because you were all gung-ho
but because you stockpiled all the right kinds of sweet, rare fruit for bribes.

Oh, so I'm wrong, then? This is not the truth, what the narrator describes?

Then sing, dammit, sing! I've brought the monkey out of the backwater jungle
to the Big City, with competition you never saw in your sissy Bengal.
You have to work now, no "monkeying" around--straighten your back!
Treat your lungs with respect, with reverence, not like a dirty sack!
Remember this very well: you're here to chant and you're here to croon.
Work hard; build up talent. You're here to hum and you're here to swoon.

So sing, dammit, sing! I don't care if your papaya-colored throat bleeds.
You're not human yet so it's time to evolve; that's what this chorus pleads.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Un Stylo d'Amour

2009-05-03T12:07:00.001-04:00

“Un Stylo d’Amour”

By Christine Stoddard

I write with a pen from my lover,

a pen he bought for me to compose

poems that convey the glowing contours of my heart;

and how I quiver at the thought of his eyes and nose,

his gentle gait, the way his bony feet barely hover

above the worm-caked soil that sports dewy clover

that our children will one day gather and place in a cart

that he, my love, father and carpenter, carved for them

from the tree beneath which we shared our first kiss

and he presented me with this elegant pen.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Te Amo, Mi Gesticulador

2009-05-01T15:31:00.001-04:00

"Te Amo, Mi Gesticulador"
By Christine Stoddard

You tell me just what to do
And, puppeteer, I’ll follow you
with wooden hands and sawdust eyes
the kind who stillness will hypnotize
the child who chases the fairy folk
into lands called Rosewood and Pembroke

It’s time to dance upon the curtained stage
the one I sometimes mistake for a gilded cage
I have to remember every step, every line
to ensure my performance surpasses the mediocre ‘fine’
For this is art now, for this I love now
For bright passion’s carved across my brow

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

The Fig Eater

2009-04-29T16:10:00.001-04:00

“The Fig Eater”
By Christine Stoddard

Once upon a time in an unmentionable land there lived a dragon
with a chicken’s scrawny neck and a bat’s black, crinkly wings.
He promised never to eat the cowering rabbits, so he dined on figs.
The dragon flew around and plucked fruits from the smiling trees,
fetching them as quickly as he could, saving them from night-time freeze.
With his perpetual sweet tooth, the dragon candied the round gems
To make sugary delights to eat while watching knights fly kites.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Swan

2009-04-28T09:36:00.001-04:00

Here I combined a poem with my drawing and my photograph to form a collage:

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

On Humanity

2009-04-27T00:08:00.000-04:00

"On Humanity"

By Christine Stoddard

Decadence...that's what it means to be human

To demand rose-colored peals and lush pink ham

To look God in the eye and deny him the sacrificial lamb

So you can use the wool for a lavish, Russian-style coat

To spice even the smallest morsel with coriander and cumin

To expect dandelions to cater to your wishes for a castle and moat

To die in splendor, even when you're no king, even when you're damned

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Why My Library Books are Late

2009-04-22T17:08:00.000-04:00

“Why My Library Books are Late”
By Christine Stoddard

There’s an angry goose roaming around Richmond, I swear!
Remember that fat bird from the Bubbleyum® wrappers—
the one sporting a ferocious Mohawk and spiked dog collar?
Well, I was walking not far from here when he gave me a scare.
I spotted his plump, Christmas dinner self ripe for oven-roasting,
his massive wings cutting through the clouds—those giant flappers.
At first, I thought it was an airplane flying low to save a dollar,
but as it zoomed closer, I realized it was a colossal bird coasting
along the April breeze that could only barely carry its weight.
My books, all forty or fifty, teetered back and forth in my arms.
After hauling them for two miles, my hair had flown everywhere.
Little did I know that my frizz would soon become a curly nest.
Because that goose showed no mercy as he swooped down
like a curious moth drawn to fateful electric insect zappers.
But this time it was the moth, not the zapper, who was the attacker!
The goose savagely tore at my mane, intent on making me holler.
Then it knocked the books out of my hands, seized one by Foucault
and blew the biggest, wettest raspberry you could ever imagine
(just like that fat, rebellious bird on the Bubbleyum® wrappers),
before disappearing into the skyline to read some gender theory.

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L'Avenir"

2009-04-20T23:05:00.001-04:00

“L’Avenir”
By Christine Stoddard

Thinking about tomorrow brings acid to my lungs
when I just want to lie here beneath the gentle sun.
A thousand cold voices speaking a thousand tongues
forbid me to revel in what I see, know, and love today.
I close my eyes and vomit, seemingly hours from done.
Why imagine the future, Grasshopper, when now you
can escape the retch and pick up your fiddle and play?

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The Geisha's Golden Koto

2009-04-17T21:20:00.001-04:00

Here is an experiment of word and image: a digital collage that includes a poem in a piece called "The Geisha's Golden Koto." I am constantly trying to find new outlets for my words. I hope you enjoy it:

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Audio Poetry

2009-04-14T23:11:00.002-04:00

Please check out some of my audio poetry at:

WWW.ASSOCIATEDCONTENT.COM/CHRISTINESTODDARD

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

The Scarecrow Speaks

2009-04-13T21:02:00.001-04:00

“The Scarecrow Speaks”
By Christine Stoddard

Smear your paint across my cheeks and call me ‘God.’
Straw in my veins and straw in my soul—I am not flesh.
I know thunder and I know the stench of rain on sod
or, how in springtime, everything smells green and fresh.
Look at me and you do not see a capped man sporting plaid.
For I may be capped and I may sport plaid, but I am no man.

My eyes do not move, even at the sight of a hundred birds.
My blood does not curdle at the thought of pecking beaks.
I watch the complacent cows as they wander in their herds.
I watch the rabbits as they nibble at new lettuce and leeks.
Notice how far away the obedient animals stand from me.
For I may be capped and I may sport plaid, but I am no man.

The worm king presides over mounds and mounds of dirt.
The pig king presides over mounds and mounds of mud.
But the scarecrow king presides over life capable of hurt.
I see each and every plant as it sprouts, each and every bud.
Not a single squash flower blossoms outside of my button gaze.
For I may be capped and I may sport plaid, but I am no man.

The crops belong to me, not that human/tractor hybrid beast.
Who observes all, from the copulating ants to the wakening seeds?
Who knows all, from gopher secrets to summoning an October feast?
I am here always, even when the Missus prepares ham and grits.
For I may be capped and I may sport plaid, but I am no man.

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Dressed for Easter

2009-04-12T13:43:00.000-04:00

“Dressed for Easter”
By Christine Stoddard

Stand straight before the mirror, bust out (but not too much)—
time to celebrate Jesus and jellybeans and rabbits in a hutch.
Have to dress up ‘nice and proper,’ not made up for the disco.
No tie-dye, peace signs, or ripped jeans; this isn’t San Francisco.
Church will be crowded and an absolute spring fashion parade.
Have to be careful about competing; beware Mother’s long tirade
about the perils of vanity and lusting after glamour and glitter.
She’ll shoot a look at me every single time my sister and I titter
at the Easter outfits (plaid and floral?!?!?) gone horribly wrong,
how we’ll point and snicker even during the very holiest song.
So I’ll grab the boring plain pink dress and not-so-snazzy shoes,
despite the fact that their modest frumpiness gives me the blues.

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Another Desperate Fashionista

2009-04-11T16:57:00.001-04:00

“Another Desperate Fashionista”
By Christine Stoddard

Trying to look feminine as I hobble on these teeny sticks,
remembering what my mother said about getting her fix.
She shopped day in and day out harder than she worked
as a stylish secretary at an office that perpetually irked
her since the hours made it hard to schedule manicures
and their closed-shoe policy made her pretty pedicures
pointless—the opposite of her costly pointed stilettos.

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Mommy's Stilettos

2009-04-09T15:27:00.001-04:00

“Mommy’s Stilettos”
By Christine Stoddard

The hat shields her owl-like eyes, as it consumes her little head.
She’s so small that she needs a running start to climb on the bed!
But Mommy doesn’t mind the way her little girl goes exploring
the contents of her vast closet, eyeing all the baubles, imploring
to try on this and try on that as sequins and zippers and beads
overwhelm even her putty-like imagination’s long list of needs.
First she’ll drown in a blouse three times as wide as she is tall
and she’ll hop from drawer to drawer seeking goodies for “the ball.”
She needs a sparkly necklace, a glittering brooch, and tons of rings—
and, of course, bushels of so many other wonderfully pretty things!
The rummage doesn’t stop at the jewelry box or the coat rack or the trunk.
Every container must be inspected in this endless quest for non-junk.
Why should she care that Mommy’s stilettos are so ridiculously big
that she could hide enough table scraps in them to feed a two-ton pig?
Why should she care that the sunglasses make her look like a bug?
That the skirts and jeans and sweaters are anything but snug?
She’s convinced that she will “grow up” and it will all fit her tomorrow.
Please don’t tell her the truth, as it will bring her less-than-fashionable sorrow.

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Bridal Bliss

2009-04-08T23:22:00.001-04:00

“Bridal Bliss”
By Christine Stoddard

Sixteen and pimply, standing before the mirror in my white summer dress,
just returned from a picnic where little kids squirted ketchup in a gross mess
on the wooden, splintery tables, bearing fried chicken and corn bread, in the park.
But here I am, away from the flies and oodles of condiments, stuck in the semi-dark
of my teddy bear and pop star infested room, dreaming of stereotypical bridal bliss,
with tons of light lace, ribbons, icing, gifities, and, of course, that life-changing kiss.
What’s more, however, is that fantastical, incomparable, almost unimaginable dress!
So much longer and pouffier and princessy than my plain old white summer dress.
My wedding gown would have the shiniest of sequins and pearly enameled beads,
with all kinds of perfectly pretty buttons and discreet zippers for my bridely needs!
I’d outrank Cinderella, upstage Sleeping Beauty, and bring Snow White to shame.
And they’d have no one but their poor taste in fashion and cheap tailors to blame.
Yes, I may be dorky and acne-ridden now, but in a decade I will take my bridal bow!
Farewell, dull white summer dress and hello, amazingly cute bridal dream dress!

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Make-Up, Make-Out

2009-04-07T23:04:00.001-04:00

“Make-Up, Make-Out”
By Christine Stoddard

I still recall the outfit I wore during my first kiss:
the old jeans and white tee that smelled of cat piss.
My eye shadow was as bright as a Caribbean sea,
and my lip gloss was the same color as a bumble bee
(I do not ever recommend painting your lips yellow,
especially if you are trying to smooch a cute fellow.)
My dirty hair stuck out in ten thousand different places,
as if I’d been frightened by some monster with fifty faces.
I swear I wore the plastic, dress-up rings of a five-year old,
the kind that desperately pretend to be silver and gold.
My perfume was supposed to smell like tropical mango,
but it smelled as if I just returned from a six-hour tango.
It is only now that I reflect upon this fashion disaster;
if only I could forget the embarrassing image faster!
Of course it is a pitiable picture that will always remain,
despite my wish that it were rather a dorky girl from Ukraine.
Strangely, though, the guy cannot remember what I wore.
Truly, his lapse in memory is something I’ll always adore.

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Dress Day

2009-04-06T19:43:00.001-04:00

“Dress Day”
By Christine Stoddard

She emerges from the covers, not a single hair in place;
then she stops before the mirror, content with her face.
With a ballerina’s twirl, she leaps to her grand closet,
poised to grab her laciest, pinkest, most elaborate corset.
But then a slinky sweater catches her unstable attention.
It is long, chunky cable-knit, and full of blatant pretension.
She pushes it aside and lunges for a bright tube top instead.
The piece reminds her of kisses blown by lips painted red.
Before she puts on the tube top, she spots a simple, plain tee,
off-white and bearing a tiny logo, the T-shirt had been free.
She nearly decides to go for it as she rifles through her jeans
(flares, skinnies, dark-wash, bleached, stretch—all size thirteen’s)
until she sights it back there, pushed to the end of her wardrobe,
behind the high school gym suit and the blue terrycloth bathrobe.
It is the most beautiful dress—dainty yet alluring—she knows,
reminding her of picnics with unicorns set at dazzling chateaus.
She snatches it off of the hanger and feels the fabric in her hands,
remembering the summer nights and the beach’s glorious sands.
“How divine! How divine! This stylish dress is all mine, mine, mine!”
Then she pulls it over her head, ignoring the seams as they beseech
her to end this madness! To stop right away! To return to the sweater!
Pretending not to hear the buttons pop off and the zipper screech,
she wiggles and squirms, hoping and praying for the proverbial better.
But then her too-big, now corpulent body rips the gorgeous dress asunder,
and she cries over her closet casualty, bellowing as loudly as thunder.

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Gorgeously Holy

2009-04-03T17:29:00.004-04:00

"Gorgeously Holy"

By Christine Stoddard

My girl, my gorgeous, gorgeous girl of feathery hair and sparrow shoulders

My world, my sweet and holy world of pious eyes the size of unknown seas

You are a hybrid beauty of a siren’s beckoning lips and a bird’s downy warmth

Come fly into my sandy arms as I emerge one-eyed from the tepid beach dunes

Ignore the scarlet streams mapped across my face like an old sailors’ guide

Ignore the scars of desperate struggle that speckle my brown, sun-eaten hide

Do not scorn the scaled dragon that gouged me with the thrash of his black tail

But rejoice in my singular sight for your salty cheeks and breasts like moons

I am not another mariner martyr hoping to re-live Christ’s crucifixion first-hand

Arrogance and vanity refuse to let me suffer for the sins of my notorious ship

I choose an ignoble life, like that of a lobster trap lying amongst the ocean’s filth

With no other purpose but to catch arthropodic flesh day in and day out without fail

My life, though ignoble, is not as trite as the trap’s, for flesh is not my only desire

A sailor dreams of catching love more than the mightiest fish or most elusive squid

Despite my numerous nets, most elaborate of lures, and scores of finely carved poles

My girl, my gorgeous, gorgeous girl, you are the swimming angel of my world

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Castigar

2009-04-02T15:30:00.001-04:00

“Castigar”
By Christine Stoddard

My god will see what is best for me
now that I’ve touched the taboo tree,
fingers dripping with the blood of fruit,
no sound in the forest but the owl’s hoot.
Give me a moment of silence as I kneel
to ask my lord my decaying soul to heal.

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Don't Believe in Tears

2009-03-26T23:14:00.001-04:00

"Don't Believe in Tears"

By Christine Stoddard

Again you face the window, wearing the look of the moon,

as you remember how he drained the blood from your heart.

His slicing whispers remain in your bones, tendons, and those

hated parts of your body you sometimes forget even exist.

Those trembles you experience in the middle of the night

stem from the shadows of his fingers around your neck.

What you mistake for a spider stumbling down your throat,

is his ghost pushing himself into your unmoving mouth—

the same mouth that refuses to tell what he did.

Because this world doesn’t believe in tears.

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Nine Flights

2009-03-22T13:12:00.001-04:00

I am currently experimenting with e-poetry (also known as electronic poetry, digital poetry, new poetry, etc.). Above is my attempt of converting my poem "Nine Flights." You can read the original poem here.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Desert Statue

2009-03-17T09:32:00.001-04:00

"Desert Statue"
By Christine Stoddard

She huddles in the Joshua tree, the owl of lurking eyes and feathers.

In this world, breeze only exists beneath the evanescent moon's reign.

She remains still in the nightly winds, excluding her rustling feathers.

Her eggs hatched under the tender guard of sparkling stars a season ago.

The moon's magnetism pulled the owl's fledglings from the ghostly tree,

to the spanning kingdom of silver craters and mysterious, winding holes.

Yet the mother latches onto the Joshua, a desert statue in eternal waiting.

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poem

2009-03-13T18:02:00.000-04:00

"Poem"

By Christine Stoddard

i would spawn a poem for your pleasure
but the stars beckon me
to dance their dance of sin
just whisper your thoughts
write them in the sand as a child does
in summertime
after all,
logic is for fools, they say
the moon nods in bitter agreement
so I listen and obey

i seize a stick and disclose my desires to the shore
for in every wish lies a poem:

give me exotic perfumes and lipsticks
red as a geisha in may
and scented stickers of lollipops and unicorns
yellow umbrellas, satin gloves, six hundred comic books
and
‘iwantvelvet’ I scribble much too fast
for what’s more sensuous than tattered silk?
mandarin oranges may seem mundane
in this world inundated with metal and plastic
but life is not quite so sweet without fruit

the stars inspected my meager list
anorexic in their sparkling eyes
they shook their heads in utter disapproval

an orange will feed you for a day
mortal
velvet will clothe you for a year
mortal
but how will you survive a lifetime?

I sighed and scratched out what I had written

Give me…

LOVE.

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Our Gardener

2009-03-07T19:34:00.001-05:00

[I wrote this today, in the sunshine.]

"Our Gardener"
By Christine Stoddard

He kneels on our porch, tending to a potted lily with calloused hands.
I know the feel of those long, knotted fingers through the depths of my hair.
Those are the same hands that sift through mounds of loams and sands.
His stale blue eyes flitter from plant to plant before they land in a stare
on a broad, white petal a thumb’s length away from his quivering nose.
How it twitches with the intensity of a curious rabbit sensing out its foes.

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Dove's Ghost

2009-03-06T22:52:00.001-05:00

[I wrote this today.]

"Dove's Ghost"

By Christine Stoddard

The moment before the dove crumpled in death, it issued the slightest sound,
one of passionate longing for its eggs to hatch, for its fledglings to see sunshine.
But its humble worm-eating children never poked out their tulip-colored beaks.
When their mother’s hollow bones grew cold, they closed their almost nascent eyes.
The future, ravaged by the floods of crimson wars, birthed their premature repine.

Now the dove emerges from the sand, no longer buried in some Edenic past.
It is a phantom of a bird, brandishing the translucent costume of any average ghost.
Barely flapping its beaten, white wings, it hovers across the muddy, rootless ground.
Who pummeled it until it could no longer bruise? Robbing it of blood and mirth?
Who murdered the feathered enigma? Who stuffed it deep into the earth?
Of all creatures to kill in our nasty world, why couldn’t the pious dove be last?

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Wendi

2009-03-04T08:11:00.000-05:00

[A cutesy poem I wrote a year or two ago.]

“Wendi”
By Christine Stoddard

Two lofts above mine lives a girl named Wendi
With globs of hair goop that make her braids bendy
Owning as many books as most girls own shoes
She always dons slip dresses in vibrant blues

Legend swears she eats only rice and beans
And that she cries at movie wedding scenes
That she dances to Madonna in the shower
Every day at noon and midnight on the hour

Wendi, Wendi with her braids so bendy
Wendi, Wendi with her brains so bendy

Wendi’s in love with a boy she’s never met
An art student named Sam who’s always in debt
He delivers the paper to her doorstep at sunrise
And wears contacts that give him wild blue eyes

Come Christmastime, Wendi celebrates alone
But the day before she gives everyone a stone
Wendi collects pebbles, but only in the cold rain
Then puts one in a stocking instead of a candy cane

Wendi, Wendi with her braids so bendy
Wendi, Wendi with her brains so bendy

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And It Unlocks

2009-03-02T11:52:00.000-05:00

[I wrote this poem yesterday evening.]

"And It Unlocks"

By Christine Stoddard

A tarnished key lies buried in the snow, a single edge of it gleaming in

the generous light from the late September stars hinged low in the sky.

You walk over to see, in the early autumn blight, where the prairie ends,

whether dotted deer in the distance are expertly disguised foes or friends,

and whether the faint jingle of bells fills only your streaming imagination.

How do you know where this key belongs and where it fits in this white field?

You think Dr. Seuss might ask, "Did a doe drop it from her brown, furry pocket?"

And then you breathe out a laugh that the Iowa night winds sweep up high.

The key is cold even in your gloved hand and it's gritty with grass and sand,

as if it flew from far away, only to land beneath the moon's steady shadows.

Extending your arm, you hold the key as would before any expectant door lock,

and twist it to reveal a land deprived of blinding snow, of prairie, of deer, of wind.

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The Perils of Insomnia

2009-03-01T13:22:00.001-05:00

[I wrote this only a couple of days ago.]

"The Perils of Insomnia"
By Christine Stoddard

A dragon dons a glittering tiara at 1:24 in the morning.

Corn chips and shrimp taste supreme at 1:25 in the morning.

Nothing on cable TV is (trop) amusing at 1:26 in the morning.

Horror wears old prescription glasses at 1:27 in the morning.

Studying literary motifs proves futile at 1:28 in the morning.

My bathrobe irritates my wrists and neck at 1:29 in the morning.

How do I coax myself back to sleep at 1:30 in the morning?

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Mysterious Prince

2009-02-27T23:40:00.002-05:00

[Another early work; can't remember if it's from middle or high school.]

"Mysterious Prince"
By Christine Stoddard

Through a dark forest, life's path winds
A stranger melted in the wood
Emerges with a word that binds
His hood peeled back, his face revealed
Foreign and cold no longer
With a humble motion he sealed
The wax that formed treasured trust
Enchantment was his foster child

Clinging like the Creator to dust
Silence stewed with the vegetables in his pot
Shattered by the roar of the spoon
Avoid his strong gaze she could not
Embrace they did
For a human face was welcome
And for his stay she did bid
Suddenly a curtain of smoke came
Engulfing this mysterious prince
Greeted by loneliness was the dame
Farewell waltzed too quickly
Too quickly for her heart

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Self

2009-02-23T21:22:00.000-05:00

"Self"
By Christine Stoddard

I said to myself today, 'Self, who are you?'
I pressed my nose to the mirror 'til it fogged up.
But there was no reply.
Perhaps I am nobody.

No, I am somebody.
I marvel at each snowflake.
I dance and sing to myself.
I drink the dew off of roses.
You must be somebody to do that.
After all, nobodies don't dream,

and dreaming is something I do quite well.

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Il Sonts Deçus

2009-02-21T09:23:00.000-05:00

"Il Sonts Deçus"
By Christine Stoddard

Tears of tea and coffee stain soft eyes
Flooding the gullies of wrinkled cheeks
Even the ancient ones resent lies
And impart their woe through salty creeks

Painters colonize the town cafe
To weep in poetic harmony
Like aging rivers drown in dismay
To humanity's disharmony

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The Cognitive Waterfall

2009-02-20T09:04:00.001-05:00

[Can't remember when I wrote this. Last year perhaps?]

"Cognitive Waterfall"
By Christine Stoddard

These ideas slosh around my body all the time,
cascading in cryptic song and rhyme.

My mind's currents run stronger than any river,
with poems that flow from my eyes to liver.

No dam can ever contain all my brain's gushing thoughts,

featuring everything from crumpled paper to black ink blots.

Never denying I'm a writer who never writes,
only dreams and dreams all my days and nights.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Pagodas

2009-02-17T23:01:00.000-05:00

"Pagodas"
By Christine Stoddard

Built of blood and crushed bones
Winding down jade roads
Dragons bewitching the sand
And it curls over desolate land
Pagodas echo their moans
Oxen heaving rice loads

Pandas scream the names
Of our ancestors

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OMGs

2009-02-16T09:04:00.001-05:00

[I wrote this poem back in high school.]

"OMGs"
By Christine Stoddard

OMG!
Did you hear Paris Hilton's not a natural blond?

OMG!
No way! That Barbie

bleach job could've fooled anyone! Or at least you!

OMG!
Don't be mean! I'm just as smart as you! Don't roll your eyes at me!

OMG!
I wasn't rolling my eyes at you---I was rolling them toward Starbucks!

OMG!
There's a Starbucks here? COOL!

OMG!
And an Abercrombie, too!

OMG!
This place is Heaven!

Except in Heaven, we'd all look like Paris Hilton and nobody would question our hair color.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Sushi

2009-02-15T16:40:00.000-05:00

[Wrote this yesterday.]

"Sushi"
By Christine Stoddard

Wads of smelly fish

Jammed in a seaweed corset

Too flimsy to juggle

Between my trainer chopsticks

Wild Boar

2009-02-12T01:19:00.001-05:00

[Dipping back in to 8th grade writing.]

"Wild Boar"

By Christine Stoddard

Silently picking the lock with a pin
Trying to release the warrior within
Before the armor clattered to the floor
Now it pines for a life of war
Such a morbid thirst for wild boar

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In Search of the Eel Tooth

2009-02-10T23:14:00.001-05:00

[Wrote this in '08.]

"In Search of the Eel Tooth"
By Christine Stoddard

We sing in syllables that sting the sky

Like steel-shot rain, so very spiny-sharp

As spiny-sharp as Boy Scout found eel teeth

You know how those boys like silly excursions

Always in search for the next eel's tooth

So...what's the word my nephew once used...?

Oh, yes, spiny-sharp, that's the word, with a hyphen

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College First

2009-02-09T08:25:00.000-05:00

[A 2009 creation. Again, not autobiographical.]

"College First"
By Christine Stoddard

I pierced my navel on the thirteenth of the month,

stabbed it on a lonely Friday, standing in darkness

The needle shocked my frail body with its fervent bite

The outside of my insides bled into crimson rivers down my front

If I'd been at home, not on campus, Mother would have disapproved

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Abortion Woe

2009-02-07T23:38:00.001-05:00

[I wrote this recently. Don't worry. I'm not pregnant. Not all of my work is autobiographical.]

"Abortion Woe"
By Christine Stoddard

If you stumble into a pool of absinthe,

will that kill the life unfolding with in you?

Hemingway told me that the process was simple,

so very, very simple that I wonder if I'm a

coward and exaggerator for caring about the

shrimp lurking in my slightly bulging belly.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Lady

2009-02-06T17:43:00.001-05:00

[I wrote this poem this year.]

"Lady"
By Christine Stoddard

Loyal creature of soft eyes,
Angelic from crown to lotus feet,
Devoted always and only to
You.

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Not Kosher

2009-02-04T14:16:00.001-05:00

[Je l'ai écrit hier soir.]

"Not Kosher"
By Christine Stoddard

My sister breathes guinea pigs onto her plate,

the kind whose squealing deems them terefah.

Remember that scene in The Promised Land where

Mary Antin visits the home of a gentile and gobbles ham?

Please pardon that bizarre creature, not the furry one,

but the one whose lungs cannot help but spew rodents.

You are the third American she has offended this Sabbath---

something that would make that regrettable Yekl choke.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

About Me

2009-02-03T15:33:00.001-05:00

[This is a very musical poem I wrote back in '08.]

"About Me"
By Christine Stoddard

Don't be a raisin when you can be a prune
Know fame and fortune and all that will come soon
See, hearts and daisies are a fairy's best friend
In time all your broken dreams will finally mend

Fishes and wishes are words that just rhyme together
An oracle can't guess anything from a feather
Maybe my tap-dancing strikes you as funny
But I'm as happy as a drunken bee, honey

Wake up and sight a world you never wanted
I never sleep so my soul's kind of haunted
Sometimes I'm so sure that you adore me, child
Then again, you're no real fan 'cause you're too wild

C'mon, our cool factor's so overrated
Punk and hippie never should've mated
There's no gold answer except for peace
Everything else hides its expired lease

Man, the sky never looked so pretty
And all the trees sing a sweet diddy

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Round and Round, Pony Dear

2009-02-02T21:40:00.000-05:00

[I wrote this last night and submitted it to a contest today.]

“Round and Round, Pony Dear”
By Christine Stoddard

You prance in the gray depths of my mind, behind Latin names I cannot pronounce,
like the prettiest pony on the carousel, with its fading paint and hollow circus notes.
The fairies of my past stitched shreds of my nostalgia to create your shining saddle,
which explains why I am so afraid to jump up and mount your sharply arched back:
fourteen thousand times have I bore testament to the strength of false memories.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Gelatin Molds

2009-02-01T10:17:00.001-05:00

[8th grade.]

"Gelatin Molds"
By Christine Stoddard

The soul of a bird free
Is not confined to gelatin molds
But splatters in the kitchen
Like cookie dough
On the blender
On the counter
On the microwave
Everywhere

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

My Nest

2009-01-30T10:36:00.000-05:00

[A high school creation.]

"My Nest"
By Christine Stoddard

Sometimes I sit here.
I sit here alone.
Or at least I pretend that is how I am. Alone.
But people stream back and forth, like silver herren.
Like geese to icy lakes, who grow restless and fly back home again to their crumpled, little nests.
If only my crumpled, little nest was farther from theirs.
I would never explore the icy lakes.
The tipping boats.
The New England chowder houses.
I would sleep here forever
in my own crumpled, little nest.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Python

2009-01-29T22:49:00.000-05:00

[Wrote this in '08.]

"Python"
By Christine Stoddard

She strides in snake shoes

Silky silver scales

Shimming in the sun

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

My Moon, This month

2009-01-26T09:03:00.001-05:00

[I wrote this poem in summer 2008.]

"My Moon, This Month'
By Christine Stoddard

When my moon hits the month with a red fervency,
crashing into a black tear-stained sky just above me,
one moment I cry and the next I smile then cry again.
Every emotion spins around on a wild Merry-Go-Round
but nothing is merry around here, only bloody as Mary.
Throbbing skull and pounding pelvis ruin a beautiful day,
and I just wish that I could recline in graceful robes, like Cleopatra.
But all my pretty dresses and gowns wear a nasty crimson blot
thanks to the moon's interference with this month.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

P.H.D. Drop-Out

2009-01-24T11:34:00.000-05:00

[I wrote this poem this academic year.]

"P.H.D. Drop-Out"
By Christine Stoddard

Broken hotels and academic suicide,
these are the feathers that weigh him down.
And no matter what he studies, he'll never fly
because textbooks are not the same as wings.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

"From the Bleachers"

2009-01-23T16:36:00.001-05:00

[Another product of 8th grade pen and notebook sessions.]

"From the Bleachers"
By Christine Stoddard

I sit in the bleachers
admiring his arms
his legs
his face
as he pummels the ball
as it skims the net

He's such a fool
He's SUCH a fool
Am I not obvious?
How can this be discreet?
Or is he ignoring me?

No.
That wouldn't make sense
because when he sits in the bleachers
he admires my arms
my legs
my face
as I pummel the ball

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Chickadee

2009-01-21T20:02:00.001-05:00

[I wrote this within the past week.]

"Chickadee"
By Christine Stoddard

She laughed at the river
and the way it sang---
so off-key from the birds.

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

The Beauty of Life

2009-01-20T20:03:00.002-05:00

[A haiku I wrote in 8th grade.]

"The Beauty of Life"
By Christine Stoddard

Incandescent love
for the beauty of life that
never fades with nightfall

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Minnow

2009-01-19T10:52:00.000-05:00

[Refer to yesterday's description.]

“Minnow”
By Christine Stoddard

Spawned from two
who’ve swam in bigger ponds
I’m still young
practically born yesterday
Just starting to open my eyes
learning that there’s more to this world than there seems

Minnow, minnow
I’m still a minnow
Life’s upstream all the way

Their scales shine
with wisdom and victory
Why can’t mine glitter in the sun like theirs?
There’s so much for me to know
I’m still marveling at mankind

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

"Queen of the Sea"

2009-01-18T10:38:00.000-05:00

[8th grade. Utopia's Haiku.]

“Queen of the Sea”
By Christine Stoddard

How the sadistic siren simpered
As the netted porpoise whimpered
All the fish folk flocked to her side
To pay their respects to the Mistress of the Tide
Now queen of the sea
T’was meant to be

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

"Empty"

2009-01-17T10:00:00.000-05:00

[My apologies for not posting diligently; real life interfered. Two from 8th grade's anthology Utopia's Haiku.]

“Empty Souls”
Vultures cast a pall
Over stumps of empty souls
Deaf to the lark’s song

“Agonizing Angel”
The music weaves through my mind
Seeping into my memories
Now there’s nothing I can confine

An agonizing angel takes my hand
And walks me through the cobble stoned streets of yesterday
Why is it that only the beggar man can sing a true carol of content?

Perhaps happiness arrives in Welfare packages
And pigeons learn to live off crumbs
Like the beggar man has

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

Memories of a Blue Tongue

2009-01-14T09:19:00.000-05:00

[I wrote this poem this year:]

"Memories of a Blue Tongue"
By Christine Stoddard

Ashes melt into the bright and fiery sky
,reminding us of the flame's true origin---
for who burns more fiercely than the sun?

Check out more of the poet's writing at www.christinestoddard.com

"It"

2009-01-13T20:02:00.001-05:00

[I wrote this poem in 8th grade, the same year it won a local poetry contest.]

“It”
It
A pinch of sand
Smooth in the beginning
Spawned by a superior being
We run through his fingers

It
An hourglass
A candle lit
It will be blown by the one that birthed us
We put it upon ourselves

It
The fading time
We slither
He floods us with obstacles
The hourglass is shaken
Neighbors drown

It
A sandstorm
We are jagged
And wound the ones we love most
Their tears feed the flowers

It
The shards
The hourglass has shattered
We spill across the floor and struggle to survive
Dreamers die... slain by their own figments

It
The loneliness
The beach is desolate
The seagulls silent
The ocean jostles one grain of sand

It
The courage
To continue life
Despite solitude
Despite being the only grain of sand

"It"

2009-01-13T20:02:00.000-05:00

Bemoaning the Ballroom

2009-01-12T16:28:00.000-05:00

[I wrote this last night; a ceramic doll of mine inspired me.]

"Bemoaning the Ballroom"
By Christine Stoddard

The orchestra erupts yet I remain delicately silent,
standing as still as a rose dressed in petticoats for petals.
My garden grows in the corner of a chatting ballroom
and like the twisted flower, I'm hidden in the dark.

The sun never shines on the shy, the violins like to cry
Only the moon shines on the shy, the cellos like to cry
But who will see my blossoms in the perilous night?

So I stand with my leaves pressed to my stubborn stems
For foliage, so I am told, may never dance here.

"Phoenix"

2009-01-11T08:36:00.001-05:00

[8th grade. Utopia's Haiku. Never before published.]

“Phoenix”
By Christine Stoddard

The cry of the Phoenix pierces my skin
The knoll is bare
Yet she is there
When all the world has shunned me
She wails from her dying tree
Seasons come and seasons go
But she won’t feed me everlasting snow
Suffering has never plucked her plumes
It follows after others to their tombs
Here I offer my every bone
Just so I won’t breathe alone
Alas! When my day is to come
I’d give her the world and then some

"Three Flowers"

2009-01-10T09:38:00.000-05:00

[I wrote this in middle school but it wasn't published until I was in 10th grade, in the magazine Teen Ink.]

“Three Flowers”
By Christine Stoddard

The lily who seeks the sun may fail
Causing her dear old mother to ail
The rose who flaunts her every thorn
May never see her first child born
The iris who insists on standing still
May very well fall frightfully ill

"Iodine"

2009-01-09T08:21:00.000-05:00

[You can probably guess when I wrote this. Yup. 8th grade. It's from an anthology I titled Utopia's Haiku.]

“Iodine”
By Christine Stoddard

Taffeta dress
Flood of stress
Sequins galore
He’ll want more
Lipstick
She’s sick
Crack of the whip
Some iodine but just a sip

"Butterfly"

2009-01-08T18:36:00.000-05:00

[Yet another 8th grade poem.]

“Butterfly”
By Christine Stoddard

Sprinkling the world
With the rain of your gist
You have no worries
Always fluttering
From rose to rose
Ignorant?
Perhaps.
Butterfly,
Why can’t my soul revel in the summer breeze
In the cradling essence of bliss?
Why can’t I be like you
Free spirit soaring high
From rose to rose?

"Sparrow's Sorrow Song"

2009-01-07T16:57:00.000-05:00

[Another 8th grade poem; it surprises people that I still have writing from 'way back when.' I only wish I had more of it!]

“Sparrow’s Sorrow Song”
By Christine Stoddard

Sparrow’s sorrow song
Leaks into the evening
Trickling with purple pain
Venom runs through her every vain
How cold is mourning mist!

"Enchanted" and others

2009-01-06T17:01:00.000-05:00

Florida was wonderful! I returned on Saturday and really enjoyed my time there. Now that I've settled in at home again, I'm ready to run this blog like normal. Thanks for your patience! Here are three poems I wrote in middle school---they seem so innocent now.

“Enchanted”
My ship sails waters gleaming blue
Waters that reflect symmetrical you
With every wave so gracefully serene
My pure fondness of you grows amply keen
And as the gulls melt into a sky so profound
I suddenly feel as if my heart has been bound
To only one creature who has ever breathed
It is you who has enchanted me, I’ve always believed

“Seashell”
Seashell
Ocean’s daughter
Snail’s abode
Memories of past life
Of treasured youth
Of summer nights spent on the shore
Etched forever in my mind
Seashell

“Ha Lee Dah Dee”
Frail as a leaf in October
A papery figure is she
Lingering in the shadows of morning’s child
Crooning
'Ha Lee Dah Dee'
She sways in the wind of cruelty
The only one that’s ever tickled her hair
And swallows the world in her arms
Singing
'Hah! Lee Dah Dee'
'Hah! Lee Dah Dee'

“We Must Pray”
Listen to the hopeful hummingbird
And she’ll assure you she remembers every word
The Ancestors of an evolving time
Granted her Earth’s Story in verse and rhyme
Before we foolishly try to alter what is done
We must pray for throats that wish to hum

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

2008-12-22T17:33:00.001-05:00

I will be in glorious Miami for the next week or so---but I promise to post more poetry when I return! Happy holidays!

Curbside of the Road

2008-12-21T20:37:00.000-05:00

[I thought this was timely.]

"Curbside of the Road"
By Christine Stoddard

Christmas Tree
Sheltering the gifts
Once you were naked
Now clothed with Holiday Cheer

Christmas Tree
Your seed was raised by angels
Once you were alone
Now protected by my home
Christmas tree
Your needles scatter the floor
Once you were loved
Now on the curbside of the road

Hoots and Meows

2008-12-20T17:16:00.000-05:00

"Hoots and Meows"
By Christine Stoddard

One day the owl betrayed the pussycat
And they sang at the sea's edge no more
Their beach soirees had died forever and
In the swish of a tail, love became war

Feathers and fur were now enemies
Talons and claws all in a wild tangle
Of scorn, regrets, and shards of broken hearts
Owl and pussycat could both mangle
The tattered feelings of their lost love

Tell me Owl, why were your untrue to her?
Did pussycat's whiskers now bore you?
Did the novelty fade with the June sun?
Don't you ever think before you do?

Tell me pussycat, do you love him still?
Can you stand to look at birds these days?
Or are they stinging reminders of sin?
Not yours, but your lover's cheating ways

One day the owl betrayed the pussycat
And they sang at the sea's edge no more
Their beach soirees had died forever and
In the swish of a tail, love became war

Child Soldier, Come Home

2008-12-19T22:02:00.000-05:00

[This poem won a local poetry contest when I was a senior in high school.]

"Child Soldier, Come Home"

By Christine Stoddard

In a garden breathing lions, snakes, and orchids, you were a lamb
Frail as the tufts of cotton Adam donned after the fall
Your eyes reflected forbidden fruit, but you feared the word “damn”
God asked for a faithful angel and you rose to the call

In pious haste, you sewed a yellow ribbon through your flaxen wool
You gladly accepted Matthew’s sword, thinking not of blood
Only wolves are killers, you muttered, I am not Satan’s fool
The Gospel’s power shall protect me from another black flood

If Christ took the cross for me, I too shall die for him
I will follow all the other creatures into the ark of war
Yaweh, where is my shield? Mother, this is not another whim!
I am no fleeting, flittering bird. O! Wait! My wings are sore!

Courageous are the little lambs who evade the arrows
But pitiable are the dead soldiers, those fallen sparrows

"Pagodas"

2008-12-18T20:36:00.000-05:00

[An 8th or 9th grade creation.]

"Pagodas"

By Christine Stoddard

Built of blood and crushed bones

Winding down jade roads

Dragons bewitching the sand

And it curls over desolate land

Pagodas echo their moans

Oxen heaving rice loads

Pandas scream the names

Of our ancestors

Willow Child

2008-12-17T21:11:00.000-05:00

[This is how I often saw myself during my early to mid-teens.]

"Willow Child"

By Christine Stoddard

Willow child

Sapling spawned from darkness and death

Your eyes reflect the soil

Silent but alive

All cloaked in winter

Gray and dim

Even though you know it's out of style

You brandish it

Nature's velvet

Spring screams

But you ignore her shrieking in the moonlight

You're silent but alive

Corridors

2008-12-16T16:46:00.000-05:00

[This strikes me as something I wrote in 10th grade, but I'm not sure.]

"Corridors"

By Christine Stoddard

The cherub within me---

the lamb within me---

the innocence lurking within my heart's bustling

corridors---

tells me not to.

Their whispers diffuse through my mind and into my

cogitations.

Whispers advising me not to.

But the demon within me---

the wolf within me---

the evil lurking within my heart's empty corridors---

tells me to.

Their ejaculations diffuse through my mind into my

cogitations.

Ejaculations advising me to.

And who do I listen to?

Why, the wolf is stronger than the lamb.