Poetry from Julie Jordan Scott

ReadWritePoem# 94 - Precarious

Photo Credit - My Angel and My Devil by Thomas Hawk

I stand, unflinching

Holding the steely balance

Across my center

 

Eternal tension in

this rod we both carry

conjoined forever

 

separated forever

To feel your face with

my hand, my fingertips

 

to feel your eyebrows your

upper lip your earlobe

beyond perfection

 

air separates us from the dangers

of intimacy hanging here, instead

the separation is most precarious of all

 

I see the testimony of the scar

at your core and I know

you know my scar's witness, too

 

Can you hear me in my silence

In the same way I hear you?

I hear you in the steel

 

seeing your scar and feeling

my scar and being unable to move

to you is more precarious than I knew

 

You and me and the steely bar

Braided constantly unchanging

This is what hell feels like

ReadWritePoem # 93 - Delicious, Tainted, Confessional Fib

Silly fibs don't fit my mercurial nature

the "I was the maid of honor for a Duchess at the Notre Dame" or

"I was the mid-morning talk show rival for Jerry Springer's second assistant" wilt on my tongue

I prefer scab tearing confessionals

The big, two fisted fibs like

the decision to fib

the indulgence of the fib

one solitary fib

Births infinite others like

I love you I don't

I want you I won't

I need you I'm nowhere you look

The scribbled fibs via text and email

"My car broke down" or

"My phone was dead" or

"I miss you (not)"

There she stands, brittle haired and

straight backed her hands dry from

years of pressing printed petitions

into the hands of tired diners

"Give me your money, I can not speak or hear"

Without lifting my eyes I share

"I don't have any extra..."

"I don't have any extra for you..."

"I dfon't have any extra for you in my wallet..."

"I don't have any extra for you in my wallet.. wait... I see myself in your eyes..."

"I don't have any extra for you in my wallet.. wait... I see myself in your eyes...and that scares me"

Which is it?

The lusty truth dies

The tainted fib lives

Silly fibs don't fit my mercurial nature

the "I was the maid of honor for a Duchess at the Notre Dame" or

"I was the mid-morning talk show rival for Jerry Springer's second assistant" wilt on my tongue

I prefer scab tearing confessionals

The Biggest Fib

The biggest fib

I ever told

You and myself

 

I love you

I don’t love you

( this burst from my morning pages when I was playing with a prompt. I had to honor the truth within it  and post it here.)

Does anyone else feel the ouch, deep in your chest?

For Later (RWP Prompt #92)

I never know where the prompts generously provided me from ReadWritePoem.Org will take me. RWP #91 took me deeply into memory. I crashed head long into soulfulness and found myself in destinations I don’t choose to go without nudging.

Today’s prompt from what I sometimes call a “Word Pool” I wrote a playful poem, flirtatious – and perhaps engaging a different side of me, coming from the third person.

I am enjoying it for reasons entirely different than last week’s offerings.

(For Later)

She has a relevant remedy

Trendy confections none sweeter

She makes sure she is

Conforming nothing to the

Clever Clover colored limelight

She flips her hair and twists her hip

“I’m worth more than your pittance, boy.”

She extends her hand to the black haired

Scofflaw with a feather in his fedora

“This isn’t for the multitudes, my

Plum task is for the bold few….”

With a wink and a curved come hither finger

She cleans the husk from the corn

Pouts just slightly as she plunges it

Into the pot of boiling water and

Melts butter

For later

 

Journey, September 14, 2009

My authentic journey continues.

I am on it here.
With you, each and all of you.
I take my gloves off on
my journey.

I leave my fingerprints,
my wordprints, as evidence

Let others trace my steps
Let others follow this path
our path
boldly step into the
stories, the silences I
don't share

the howling - the mouth open
the hunger 0 the absenteeism from
love without even a letter home
the deep satisfaction

I smell the thirsty
pavement, quenched
I hear Hank sleep
my textured
story includes
these and me

I hit an impasse
I turn around and
look over my shoulder for you
We catch one anothers' eye
and smile

giving permission
giving grace
holding love
in our
picnic basket

- - Julie Jordan Scott

Not Terza Rima Sorta #1

I experiment with poetic forms as a regular practice in hopes of improving all of my writing, not just the poetic side of me. In September, I am turning to Terza Rima. And after reviewing the link about Terza Rima, I realize... I have done it all wrong!

 

Funny! On so many levels. I will definitely go back and rewrite and begin again. Giggling at me... and here is the link so you may see how one writes Terza Rima correctly!

 

 

She woke me with her ranting call

Destructive force within child-like frame

I retreat beneath my blanket wall

One might say impetuousness a favored game

 

For once, just for once, delight me

Must I blow with forced wind gales?

I want to love you, can’t you see?

Press my chest against wide white sails

 

The alternative is to give up.

Just give up. Which I will not do.

Late night frightened whining pup

Not now or then. Not ever. Not true.

 

When I detangle my words

Will they lose luster or spray?

Move them around the page

I can not worry, I must obey

 

The call to end this poem line

And hopefully, soon – grow a spine

 

Breath Won

In response to ReadWritePoem.Org

Get Your Poem On:Prompt #91

(Perhaps the best Poetry Prompt I have

ever used as inspiration.)

 

If you are a poet or creative writer

of any sort check out the prompt

after you read my poem, PLEASE....

 

I had to become intimate

With the Coyote before

She allowed me to look into

Her eyes, to see myself

Reflected in the gold of

Her iris

My feet shouted run and

My breath crooned stay

Breath won

I stayed

The sun, never too warm there,

Hitting my skin. His voice, the one

I still hear in my head. Fine

sandpaper voice. Low.

(Not too low.)

Prone to laughter. So many freckles.

So very smart. Almost too smart,

yet never show-offy in the smartness.

Our voices and my pulse racing I hear us

Bickering about ridiculousness

quarterflash vs pat benatar

would we have fought over silly stuff

if we understood our time was finite?

I wonder?

I wonder.

The gold of His iris reflected my wink

when I walked towards the altar

before his bride.

Catching the reminder of his gold iris

coming towards me from the airport

hallway, LAX, tired, late, red-eyes

times three, or perhaps four, long

island iced teas hanging in the space

between us all slippery sweet

“you cut your hair”

not sure if he loved or hated it

or whether or not that should

matter, anyway

His howl tugged me, drew

Me and the grown men surrounding

Him, Giant sentries imprisoning

His tiny in comparison frame

Why were they holding him,

My howling child, captive?

Is this how to effect positive change?

No thought was involved in

Bursting through their testosterone,

Nearing middle aged arm crossed

Barricade.

This is my son.

My five-year-old son.

Howling.

Because he can not say what he

Wants to say.

It isn’t that he doesn’t want to

It is that he can’t.

He resorts to howling, wailing,

Moaning and somehow

In their coal, black eyes

That makes him wrong

They had to become intimate

With the Coyote before

He would allow them look into

His eyes, to see themselves

Reflected in the gold of

His iris

Loving me. Needing me too much at

times. Wanting me to go. Unsure.

Always loving me, even when I moved

Avoidance.  Not really avoidance but

avoidance of unknown phone. pumping gas.

not wanting to describe my falling apart

because perhaps….

Protecting.

Oh, that made me angry.  

gold light, inside the institutional,

claustrophobic brick. How I wish I had

gone, just once.

Trust my paint.  He understood.

Sharing stories late into the night.

 “flawless” and “for love” and

he let me discover horror for myself.

Again, that light. That sweet glow that

isn’t seen without training the eye or

looking in the right places.

Knowing strengths, weaknesses. Always

suggesting projects. Wanting my presence.

Wanting my footprints alongside his in the snow.

Wanting to remember.

Wanting us to remember together.

Being unafraid and being brutally honest

still allowing rainfall from what

wanted to be born.

The last show. The naked ass, the

tattoo on the naked ass, the harvest

field of what would kill him. I didn’t

want to look

I did.

I saw it in his discomfort on the sofa,

so low, sitting acting, only the slightest

pain a flashlight from his eyes.

Hospital smells. Crowded. Tiring.

Walking as a dirge. The inevitable.

Fighting without strength. Touch.

I remember touch.

I would have thought I would

remember smell.

My feet shouted run and

My breath crooned stay

Breath won

I stayed

Spoon Dips: Read Write Poem.Org Mini-Challenge

Emma hears something inside
that shows in her flickered smile

Moments ago she had been angry,
so angry, "That's rude, Mom!"

"I won't do it. I won't invade
someone else's space like that."

Arms crossed, hiding budding femaleness
and bursting with pre-conception stubbornness

"Do you remember Jesse?"
 "Long haired skater" smattering

of Spanish, "He's bald now, he's in
the marines. He has a brother, no? The

"tall one? You know what I'm talking
about..." non-word sounds, unintelligible

gibberish into the back of my head
She eats her sundae

long hair covered with fudge
spoon dips, like a metronome

Never noticed how loud it was here
My pen is tired of wandering

Crying child bumps my bench on his side
Fragments, buzzing, bells, my mind pops

 
 Process and prompting from ReadWritePoem.Org

Oh, the Skirt....

 

Photo: Street Performer by Bradley Olin

See his work on Flickr

The skirt caught my eye first
such an odd cut, I thought,
and such a strange fit, I thought

I hardly noticed
the mandala of flames
balanced in his mouth
he in an illfitting,
oddly cut skirt
walking the streets
of someplace
not very like
my Bakersfield

We are drawn to oddities
Some to fire some to mandalas
some to those daring enough
to combine fire and mandalas

upon our faces and breastbones
just like my eyes were drawn
inexplicably to the
skirt first rather than

what every other normal
person would see

flames crowds
out-of-placeness

 

This poem was born from Get Your Poem On Prompting from my friends at...

Naked JJS

I am going to be performing Thursday night in an event called "Two Hours Inside"... most of the other poets are urban, hip, young slam style poets.

I am not.

I met with the producer of the event and felt... as if she was worried that I would not "fit in" and she is right, but she had specific reasons for including me. Probably the most notable is I am a "draw" amongst the artsy community here... and most people who know me like me.  The song she chose for my entrance says exactly that.

It embarasses me when I let it.

I have been going through my poetry looking for work that offers what she has asked me for - she specifically asked me for poetry about "Naked Julie" because she knows I have modeled in my own-self-directed nude photo shoots.. and a couple other-directed but within my parameters of comfort and I also frequent clothing optional hot springs... and she knows both of these facts may cause a bit of a sensation among the young, hip, urban crowd who only wishes to do such things.

I found some writing which I fashioned into a poem and read it aloud to myself and am so grateful I did because... it feels like these words have been begging to be shared.

Naked JJS

Her prompt said something like…..

“Standing stark naked in front of my friends, I want

To”… and the dot dot dot invitation to write and

I found, instead…

I don't want to STAND naked, I want to

BE naked with my friends.

Gentleness in touching, supporting. I remember

sitting back to back with Kelly,

my head against her shoulder, resting,

with her body a mirror image to mine.

I remember cavorting through

the woods, "stark naked" to an outsider but

clothed in much more than cotton

or linen or tweed.

Clothed in breath, in spirit.

Clothed in hands, held out in support, palm-to-palm,

steadied connection, a blanket of sunny granite, a

huge slab - all the covering needed in the just

above freezing weather.

It is Eden-like, conscious nakedness. Check your

"thought" at the door and become a part of

just-post birth... allow that sweetness to just be...

Hand massaging a random foot, a face resting against

a back, eyes deeply looking into eyes.

Fully naked, fully clothed, fully

you and fully me.

= = =

My naked body inspires me to roar. Seriously, roar.

Strong, that roaring, up from the stretch-mark-laden

belly. I roar at the nurse, "caring" for me as I

opened my vagina, also roaring, to let Katherine

out of the enormously enlarged uterus, still

confining, into the much colder world which

is confining in a different way.

My naked body inspires me to break molds and

myths regarding my own beauty. I imagine a

myth starring Martha Graham, Audre Lourde and me.

A dancer, a lesbian, an African-American, WASP

poet breaking molds, loosening the confines of

belief that anything "has to" be any particular

shape or style or form.

"The body always stands in truth" Martha's

doctor father tells us. I wonder what Audre's

Mom would say?

My mom's face doesn't smile

like it used to smile, it wants to but it

can't anymore, it can't

I am inspired by my naked body to listen to how

it moves my pen across the page.

= = =

What is sacred about my naked feminine body is... it

would be easy to say "everything" and yeah,

sure - that is true, but I am ever and always

tapped on the shoulder, reminded reminding

"Be specific!" so I am and I will.

"This is the body, broken for you" it goes. My

body. Sacred in its brokenness. Sacred in its

being holy and wholly female, in this culture,

the place I call "home" my naked body

deemed "less than" for centuries.

This is my body, broken. Knees hurting, still

healing, broken in honor of my sister witches,

fellow artists, a feeling-tattoo,

sacred to my soul.

"This is my blood, shed for you." My monthly

bleeding, shedding, monthly visitor just doing

its gate-talking now. Not quite ready to go.

I am not ready to be done with my feminine monthly

shedding, my sacred blood. Somehow it connects me

with my most important, most significant works

of art and to the woman who created me.

My body, my feminine naked body, sacred, broken,

shed.. for you. Each of you

all of you.

Standing stark naked here

in front of you, my friends, I

want to…

I don't want to STAND naked with you

I want to BE naked with you.

Each of you, all of you.

So, I am.