Hi!

My name is Sondra Rose Marie.

I write haikus because I find them to be oddly challenging, perfect for capturing moments, and beautifully classic.

On Sundays, I celebrate other poets with Someone Else's Poem I Like Sunday posts.

Submissions (images, art, poetry) are love.

 

The Evening Gatha
Let me respectfully remind you, life and death are of supreme importance.Time swiftly passes byand opportunity is lost.Each of us should strive toawaken.Awaken!Take heed:Do Not Squander Your Life.___________________________________
#SomeoneElse’sPoemILikeSundayTonight’s poem is The Evening Gatha which, from what I can find online, is from the Zen Mountain Monastery. I choose to share it with you because I returned today from a four day retreat in the woods of Cali. During my trip, one of my fellow campers taught me the term “YOLO:” You Only Live Once. (Deep, right?!) Anyways, this poem seems to communicate the yolo mindset pretty well, so it called to me as soon as I saw it.
The lovely photograph of Central Park is by Betsy Pinover Schiff.

The Evening Gatha

Let me respectfully remind you,
life and death are of supreme importance.
Time swiftly passes by
and opportunity is lost.
Each of us should strive to
awaken.
Awaken!
Take heed:
Do Not Squander Your Life.
___________________________________

#SomeoneElse’sPoemILikeSunday
Tonight’s poem is The Evening Gatha which, from what I can find online, is from the Zen Mountain Monastery. I choose to share it with you because I returned today from a four day retreat in the woods of Cali. During my trip, one of my fellow campers taught me the term “YOLO:” You Only Live Once. (Deep, right?!) Anyways, this poem seems to communicate the yolo mindset pretty well, so it called to me as soon as I saw it.

The lovely photograph of Central Park is by Betsy Pinover Schiff.


Someone Else’s Poem I Like Sunday
I selected today’s poem because it has the simplicity that I love (as you might have noticed by now) and it utilizes spacing creatively in a way that instructs the reader. Also, I love how specific the author is in capturing a moment, but how vague s/he is in defining a situation: is this a poem about a lover? A breakup? A death? A betrayal? An incarcerated friend? The poem can apply to the lives of a multitude of readers, thanks to this ambiguity, without losing any of the gut-punching emotion of the poem.
_____________________________________________________________________This week’s poem is one that I found floating around tumblr. I have had no success in finding the name of the author. 
The photograph is from the July 2010 issue of InStyle UK. The model is Skins actress Kaya Scoledario and the photographer is Jason Hetherington.

Someone Else’s Poem I Like Sunday

I selected today’s poem because it has the simplicity that I love (as you might have noticed by now) and it utilizes spacing creatively in a way that instructs the reader. Also, I love how specific the author is in capturing a moment, but how vague s/he is in defining a situation: is this a poem about a lover? A breakup? A death? A betrayal? An incarcerated friend? The poem can apply to the lives of a multitude of readers, thanks to this ambiguity, without losing any of the gut-punching emotion of the poem.

_____________________________________________________________________
This week’s poem is one that I found floating around tumblr. I have had no success in finding the name of the author. 

The photograph is from the July 2010 issue of InStyle UK. The model is Skins actress Kaya Scoledario and the photographer is Jason Hetherington.

Traveler
Your first time out of the countryof your own skin, I didn’t bring a map.
You always hated that I’d been luckyenough to pick my way through streets
I couldn’t pronounce to find cathedrals,graveyards. If you were a city, you said,
I’d only like to know your suburbs.
If you were a city, I said, I’d like to knowyour poor neighborhoods, your inner parts.
Read your graffiti. Drink your tap water.Feel your smog and dirt stick to my sweat.
Hear your orchestra of sirens and gunshots.I’d know which of your streets to walk.
If you were a city, I’d expect to be robbed.
— Heather Sommer
____________________________________________________________________Someone Else’s Poem I Like Sunday
I absolutely love this poem and the way the author manages to use the metaphor of falling victim to a city to tell her ‘you’ how intimately she wants to know them. The comparison between getting to know a city and getting to know another person is perfect: sometimes we only want to see the lovely idealized bits of other people/cities outside of our own, but then other times we want to know every aspect—the good, the bad, the toxic, the weird—of the people and places we encounter. I think this is the difference between wanting to get acquainted or familiar with someone and wanting to be consumed by someone. 
Every time I read this poem, I fall more in love with it. Judging from the comments on decomP's website, I'm not the only one. If you are moved by this poem, please feel free to leave a comment on decomP's site letting the author, Ms. Heather Sommers, know that you appreciate her work. 
The photo is from the tumblr of Children of Desire and I do believe it is the blogger’s original work.

Traveler

Your first time out of the country
of your own skin, I didn’t bring a map.

You always hated that I’d been lucky
enough to pick my way through streets

I couldn’t pronounce to find cathedrals,
graveyards. If you were a city, you said,

I’d only like to know your suburbs.

If you were a city, I said, I’d like to know
your poor neighborhoods, your inner parts.

Read your graffiti. Drink your tap water.
Feel your smog and dirt stick to my sweat.

Hear your orchestra of sirens and gunshots.
I’d know which of your streets to walk.

If you were a city, I’d expect to be robbed.

— Heather Sommer

____________________________________________________________________
Someone Else’s Poem I Like Sunday

I absolutely love this poem and the way the author manages to use the metaphor of falling victim to a city to tell her ‘you’ how intimately she wants to know them. The comparison between getting to know a city and getting to know another person is perfect: sometimes we only want to see the lovely idealized bits of other people/cities outside of our own, but then other times we want to know every aspect—the good, the bad, the toxic, the weird—of the people and places we encounter. I think this is the difference between wanting to get acquainted or familiar with someone and wanting to be consumed by someone. 

Every time I read this poem, I fall more in love with it. Judging from the comments on decomP's website, I'm not the only one. If you are moved by this poem, please feel free to leave a comment on decomP's site letting the author, Ms. Heather Sommers, know that you appreciate her work. 

The photo is from the tumblr of Children of Desire and I do believe it is the blogger’s original work.

Someone Else’s Poem I Like Sunday!

Catch A Body

Salinger, I’m sorry, but “Don’t ever tell
anybody anything” is a string of words
I would like to wrap up in canvas and sink
to the bottom of the Hudson, or extract
by laser from the ribcage of all of us
who ever believed it, who felt afraid
to miss someone, to be the last one
standing. “Tell everyone everything” is
not exactly right, but I do believe that if
your mother looks radiant in violet
you should tell her, or when a juvenile
sparrow thrashes its wings in dustpiles
and reminds you of a lover’s eyelashes,
you should say so. We are islands all of us,
but we are also boats, our secrets flares,
pyrotechnic devices by which we signal
there’s someone in here we’re still alive!
So maybe it’s, “don’t be afraid.” We can
rewrite Icarus, flame-resistant feathers,
wax that won’t melt, I mean it, I’ll draw up
a prototype right now, that burning ball
of orange won’t stop us, it’ll be everything
we dream the morning after, even if we fall
into the sea—we are boats, remember?
We are pirates. We move in nautical miles.
Each other’s anchors, each other’s buoys,
the rocket’s red, already the world entire.

— Oliver Bendorf

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This week’s poem was chosen for three reasons: (i) it responds to J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, which is a book I can’t help loving. (ii) the imagery is lovely and fresh. Tell me you can’t see all the boats on the sea, wanting to connect and I’ll call you a liar. (iii) I love the message, the heart, of the poem. Of course we’re signaling to each other with our secrets, trying to pull others in closer. That’s life, isn’t it?


December 21st, 2002 by Brett Elizabeth Jenkins
It’s said it takes seven yearsto grow completely new skin cells. To think, this year I will growinto a body you never willhave touched.
_________________________________________________________________Someone Else’s Poem I Like Sunday!
I selected this week’s poem because it’s amazing. I read it and it hit me right in the gut and I am pretty sure that’s the whole point of poetry. The poem is by one Ms. Brett Elizabeth Jenkins. The photograph was born of the tumblr-gods.

December 21st, 2002 by Brett Elizabeth Jenkins

It’s said it takes seven years
to grow completely new skin cells. 

To think, this year I will grow
into a body you never will

have touched.

_________________________________________________________________
Someone Else’s Poem I Like Sunday!

I selected this week’s poem because it’s amazing. I read it and it hit me right in the gut and I am pretty sure that’s the whole point of poetry. The poem is by one Ms. Brett Elizabeth Jenkins. The photograph was born of the tumblr-gods.


Someone Else’s Poem I Like Sunday!
I chose to showcase today’s untitled poem because it is lovely in it’s simplicity and relatability. I mean, we’ve all been there: realizing we’ve grown beyond fond of someone who may or may not feel the same way and who’s unwilling to make their stance on the situation clear. 
Those hussies. 
__________________________________________________________________For the first time ever, both the poem and the photograph were found on tumblr. The poem, unfortunately, goes un-credited. Luckily, the photograph holds a watermark: it’s the work of Lady Tori over at DeviantArt.com. 

Someone Else’s Poem I Like Sunday!

I chose to showcase today’s untitled poem because it is lovely in it’s simplicity and relatability. I mean, we’ve all been there: realizing we’ve grown beyond fond of someone who may or may not feel the same way and who’s unwilling to make their stance on the situation clear. 

Those hussies. 

__________________________________________________________________
For the first time ever, both the poem and the photograph were found on tumblr. The poem, unfortunately, goes un-credited. Luckily, the photograph holds a watermark: it’s the work of Lady Tori over at DeviantArt.com. 

Someone Else’s Poem I Like Sunday!

Y’all. 

I don’t know why I love this poem so much. Maybe it’s the idea of stinking with love. Maybe it’s Eileen Mothereffin’ Myles’s voice stacked tall with feeling but fresh and soothing at the same time. Maybe it’s the combination of the poem and the dizzying animation of words.

Whatever it is: I love it

I hope you do too.

As always, feel free to hit that submit button and tell me what you think!

(Source: drugz)

Someone Else's Poem I Like Sunday (III)

I’ve been obsessed with this poem for months now. It’s lovely and it makes me want to cry every single time I read it. This Sunday, I’m sharing it with you though it isn’t a haiku. It’s so deep and well written and visual that I don’t mind breaking the rules to share it with you all. You may notice that I’m not including an image with this poem. Instead, after your read the poem, you can click here to see a video of Gabe Moses performing it. Please, read it, watch it, and let me know if you love it too!

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How to Make Love to a Trans Person by Gabe Moses

Forget the images you’ve learned to attach
To words like cock and clit,
Chest and breasts.
Break those words open
Like a paramedic cracking ribs
To pump blood through a failing heart.
Push your hands inside.
Get them messy.
Scratch new definitions on the bones.

Get rid of the old words altogether.
Make up new words.
Call it a click or a ditto.
Call it the sound he makes
When you brush your hand against it through his jeans,
When you can hear his heart knocking on the back of his teeth
And every cell in his body is breathing.
Make the arch of her back a language
Name the hollows of each of her vertebrae
When they catch pools of sweat
Like rainwater in a row of paper cups
Align your teeth with this alphabet of her spine
So every word is weighted with the salt of her.

When you peel layers of clothing from his skin
Do not act as though you are changing dressings on a trauma patient
Even though it’s highly likely that you are.
Do not ask if she’s “had the surgery.”
Do not tell him that the needlepoint bruises on his thighs look like they hurt
If you are being offered a body
That has already been laid upon an altar of surgical steel
A sacrifice to whatever gods govern bodies
That come with some assembly required
Whatever you do,
Do not say that the carefully sculpted landscape
Bordered by rocky ridges of scar tissue
Looks almost natural.

If she offers you breastbone
Aching to carve soft fruit from its branches
Though there may be more tissue in the lining of her bra
Than the flesh that rises to meet it, Let her ripen in your hands.
Imagine if she’d lost those swells to cancer,
Diabetes,
A car accident instead of an accident of genetics
Would you think of her as less a woman then?
Then think of her as no less one now.

If he offers you a thumb-sized sprout of muscle
Reaching toward you when you kiss him
Like it wants to go deep enough inside you
To scratch his name on the bottom of your heart
Hold it as if it can-
In your hand, in your mouth
Inside the nest of your pelvic bones.
Though his skin may hardly do more than brush yours,
You will feel him deeper than you think.

Realize that bodies are only a fraction of who we are
They’re just oddly-shaped vessels for hearts
And honestly, they can barely contain us
We strain at their seams with every breath we take
We are all pulse and sweat,
Tissue and nerve ending
We are programmed to grope and fumble until we get it right.
Bodies have been learning each other forever.
It’s what bodies do.
They are grab bags of parts
And half the fun is figuring out
All the different ways we can fit them together;
All the different uses for hipbones and hands,
Tongues and teeth;
All the ways to car-crash our bodies beautiful.
But we could never forget how to use our hearts
Even if we tried.
That’s the important part.
Don’t worry about the bodies.
They’ve got this.

Someone Else’s Poem I Like Sunday

Dude. Elton John is
The most amazing man. He  
Deserves a high-five.

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I selected pithy-protagonist's poem for today's Someone Else’s Poem I Like Sunday because (a) it’s true, (b) it made me smile, and (c) it’s well written and not at all pretentious. 

Sir Elton John’s artistic fervor and love for his music are captured perfectly in the photo above, which I snatched up from CriticsChoice.com

Someone Else’s Poem I Like Sunday

Alright you all, it’s lazy Sunday! I feel like all Sundays should be work free days of sparkling creativity and Law & Order: SVU marathons (YES! USA does show marathons of America’s favorite show all day every Sunday!). In keeping with that ideology, I’m introducing a new feature to this blog: Someone Else’s Poem I Like Sunday.

That means that, from here on out, I’ll scour the ‘net for poems I enjoy and share them with you on lazy Sundays. I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to limit myself to haikus, because there is so much beautiful poetry out there that I want to share with you—and it’s not all in haiku form! However, I’ll have to figure that out tomorrow because it’s Sunday and I’m sitting here thinking rather than lying on my couch. So, without further ado, here’s the inaugural poem for Someone Else’s Poem I Like Sunday. 

xo

S

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Restoration

its never too late
for heartfelt apology
my love, i’m sorry

Abandoned House

This poem is reblogged from the writer over at thissilentstorm. Unfortunately, the photograph is all over tumblr with no mention of the photographer’s name.