10 May 2014

So, it might be time...

to migrate my Blogger blog to my website blog. Am I ready for big-girl pants? You tell me. I love the all-black of this blog. I love the image of the woman on her knees that prevails over all proceedings. I love that I still obsessively check my Site Meter stats even though they haven't been working properly since January 11, 2013 (whoever you are in France, thank you for reading so closely). I love this blog the way I love a drink served in a mason jar. But maybe it's time.

So, with that wishy-washy adieu (as so many of them are), please visit me at my new ethernet home, a website with my full name: sarahdohrmann.com. I will continue the narrative blogging there, until it morphs into something new and different—as is the rule of life: change.

https://sarah-dohrmann-su4m.squarespace.com/undyouvilllikeit/

30 April 2014

Day Thirty: April 30


for my sisters

This is not the last poem I
will write while extremely
tired. This will not be the
last poem I will write with
a glass of red wine to my
left and a candle lit to my
right and a pile of student
work to get through before
the morning. This will not
be the last poem I write,
wondering if there was some-
thing different I could have
done that might have made
it all work out the way we
have imagined it could have
worked out. This is not the
last poem I will write with
my hood up and my nose
cold, wishing as I often do
that I had a fireplace. The
landlady has turned the heat
off—and why not, it is the
last day of April and this cold
and barrage of rain was not what
we'd predicted, which is to say it
is not what we had willed. We
know well of disappointment, of
basements, of listening through
vents, of coming out of our corners,
swinging. Hey, it's OK. This is not
the last poem I will write that will
try to fight for us what little way I
can. This is not the last poem I will
write that tries to soothe today's
quotidian so as to save us from
our ongoing heartbreak, to fix the
fissures within, to mend the breaks
between you and me. This is not so
much about the past as it is about
the now. This is me writing from
my life to yours. I love you. This is
not the last poem. This is another way
of saying that you matter, that your
reading this matters, that my writing
this matters, that this sliver of a space
we share matters, no matter how small,
no matter how beaten, no matter how fat,
no matter how clouded with carbon monoxide,
no matter how bright or how dark (depending
on our mood), that the moon is the name that you
call it, and that you are up there, dangling from it,
calling for a drop ladder to help get you down, and that
I hear you. And though I cannot always come, I want you
next to me so that with this poem, you know that you are not alone.

And that's it, folks, the last day of National Poetry Month's Poem-a-Day Challenge. Thanks for reading. 

Day Twenty-Nine: April 29 (sort of)

M.D. to S.D.

Not always to set sail upon
but to be surrounded by the
sea; island.

Sorry, gurl. Some poems
are meant for going it alone—
concrete jungle, rose city fulla thorns,
old knots of old feelings we're still working
over with nimble fingers. OK.

Here, boo: Not always
to set sail upon but to be
surrounded by the sea;
island. There. Take that.
Take it as if it were a
message sent old-skool
style in a bottle and you
picked it up one day when
you took a walk along the
Hudson, poking your umbrella
into sidewalk holes. Oh, yeah.
That's what I'm talking about.

Oh, yeah nice: Not always
to set sail upon but to be
surrounded by the sea;
island. Oh yeah, it goes deep.
And beneath our two islands
is land that reaches east to west
and west to east, all the way to
the earth's fiery core.

Sorry, gurl. Not always to
set sail, some poems have
the words "fiery core"
in them. Mmm yeah, and
good thing, too.

In celebration of National Poetry Month, I've taken on the Poem-a-Day Challenge. Thirty poems in thirty days. Yeeouch! Please visit my new website at sarahdohrmann.com for more info, news, events, and blah di blah blah. Thanks, and check back for more poems!

Day Twenty-Eight: April 28


Cinderella

It is hard to know which is
more exotic: the young lady
in a ball gown or the maid
scrubbing the floors.

She is both the same woman,
which is the part no one can
get their head around: how
the maid could be the young
lady; how the young lady could
be the maid. (As if the two were
mutually exclusive.)

We pity the maid. We exalt the
young lady. And we look for
the object of her transformation —

a glass slipper that's impossible
to walk in, let alone run.

In celebration of National Poetry Month, I've taken on the Poem-a-Day Challenge. Thirty poems in thirty days. Yeeouch! Please visit my new website at sarahdohrmann.com for more info, news, events, and blah di blah blah. Thanks, and check back for more poems!

Day Twenty-Seven: April 27

Dusk

I wanted to write about dusk but I ended up writing about the ocean because I wanted to write about something that was wide and vast and larger than a cornfield, larger than the island I live on, larger than the city I live in, something like the horizon but with animals that lurk in its blue, cold and enveloping, cold and blue. The French call "dusk" entre chien et loup, between dog and wolf, because in the gloaming you can't tell the difference. I used to think that, anyway, but then night fell and my nephew, who was maybe 8 years old at the time, turned wild, got naked, ran around the house, twirling his PJs over his head like a victory flag, howling loud and laughing all the harder when told to settle down. Down fell night, and up amped the wolf in his small body, the moon dictating the gravitational pull of the wild waters swallowing him whole, the way they swallow you and me whole. Yes, you know. The night is coming, love, and the world we walk in is blue and vast, and we are in its waters now, waters that bring on that urge to say what we want to say and ask what we want to ask and do what we want to do and fuck who we want to fuck and drink when we are thirsty and eat when we are hungry and sleep when we are tired, because in this depth that dusk brings on, our mindless urges have 14-foot stingrays floating behind with a graceful danger, and our jellyfish selves can howl all night, can howl all night through the cold and the blue, can howl till the howl gets so regular the neighbors learn to just sleep through that shit and head to work after daybreak like any regular Tuesday, like they don't live next to a woman and a man who morph into jellyfish wolves as night descends, forgetting as they do their primal selves long since relegated to the domesticated duties of a dumb dog sitting on its hind legs, giving a paw for a treat.

In celebration of National Poetry Month, I've taken on the Poem-a-Day Challenge. Thirty poems in thirty days. Yeeouch! Please visit my new website at sarahdohrmann.com for more info, news, events, and blah di blah blah. Thanks, and check back for more poems!

26 April 2014

April Twenty-Six: April 26

[a rewrite]

M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I

whole days in this
river town with stench
of dead horse meat
that Grandma can't
smell anymore, I sing
M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I
dog food factory town
where loose meat burgers
like Sloppy Joe's get served
without the sloppy—I dance
M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I
Your dad could've put you girls
in a home. Any other man would've
done that. M-I-S-S-I-S-S-
I like my meat sloppy


In celebration of National Poetry Month, I've taken on the Poem-a-Day Challenge. Thirty poems in thirty days. Yeeouch! Please visit my new website at sarahdohrmann.com for more info, news, events, and blah di blah blah. Thanks, and check back for more poems!

25 April 2014

Day Twenty-Five: April 25


Happy Anniversary to Me

I am tired from having looked at words and sentences all day to correct errors and fix misunderstandings ("recast sentences" as they say). This is something I do for pay. I am having a bit of a crisis with my book, though to say so feels hyperbolic in a When-have-you-ever-not-been-having-a-crisis sort of way. OK, OK. Leave me alone. I am thinking about going very far away. I am always thinking about going very far away. I have been surviving in New York City for 15 years on nuts and raisins, spinach and arugula, chicken bought pre-roasted from the store, yogurt, red wine, G&Ts, cigarettes and coffee. I am a walking cliche. I am in love with every person I see in New York City, still. I love the old Polish one-man-band who plays at the Union Square "L" platform, who also sometimes plays at the Bedford Ave "L" platform, whose music actually hurts my ears. I love the kid who's complaining about how much further he has to walk; I am in love with his mother who doesn't answer, who clearly spent quite a lot of time this morning making sure her son is dressed nice and that she is, too. I am in love with the woman who's just moved here, who's me 15 years ago, ready and willing and waiting for the city. She is flirting with a boy on the train, hanging one hand on the pole, leaning in to him just enough so that he can feel the heat of her body. The first thing I did when I moved to the city in April of 1999 was go to the OTB with my boyfriend at the time, because going to the OTB was something he did and there were still OTBs. I bet on a horse to win, and then I changed my mind for the horse to place, and I told the teller that I wanted to switch my bet, which I did, and I took my new ticket. Sure enough, the horse placed, and when I went to get my winnings, I noticed the teller didn't switch my bet right. I argued best I could, but what's on paper is what's on paper, so I didn't win. We also went to see David Blaine buried alive on 68th & Riverside Drive, the glass encasing him into a foggy depth, something like the cashier at the liquor store behind bullet-proof glass where we bought whisky that we drank by the liter by fireside in an old loft apartment on Broome Street, the cars in never-ending traffic below, inching to the Holland Tunnel. I wanted to be a writer. We made love in front of the fireplace. We laughed a lot and fought a lot and drank too much. I received two more rejections today. Folks sure do love to tell me how close I came. Apparently I am a very serious contender. I have forgotten most of my New Year's resolutions by now, but I think one of them was: Get my shit together. I think I wrote that down somewhere.

In celebration of National Poetry Month, I've taken on the Poem-a-Day Challenge. Thirty poems in thirty days. Yeeouch! Please visit my new website at sarahdohrmann.com for more info, news, events, and blah di blah blah. Thanks, and check back for more poems!