Something I wrote in light of current events…
© T. Altman 2017
Holding out the branch to me
Planted her for me to see
Connection to roots of old
Bound by blood ties he told
Of knowledge, peace and victory
This beautiful bounteous tree
Dedicated to Athena the Wise
Crowned over virgin guise
Hard core and bitter flesh
Just like memories I thresh
An eternal evergreen first track
Turns time and is bruised black
Golden source of the Old World
It sings to me of tragedies unfurled
Yet supplicants my feelings at odds
As it’s a gift of nature from the Gods
© Image and Poem: T. Altman 2017
Compulsively staring at the semi occupied mason jar
Dissecting with critical eyes its lurid contents
Tapping the lettered glass whenever I pass
Occasionally lifting to shake and peer –
Unable to rip away
Heart breaking and bouncing with every vibration
Vinegar water steeped to a furious vermilion
Thirsty for the twist – lift – pop
Take you down
Pervade the depths of me
Quench my thirsty resentment
Sinisterly sinew was the expectation
Smooth Saccharine the surmise
© T. Altman 2017
Created this jpg this morning as the thought has been running around in my head for a while now and its become my personal motto!
(C) T. Altman 2017
I wrote this poem and submitted to the Festival for Poetry and is now featured on their site:
I was around 21 when I showed a friend some of the poetry I had written up to that point. We were planning on attending a poetry reading group and I wanted some feedback on my work before going “public”with it. It was a huge deal for me, as before this I had never shown anyone my poetry.
This friend was very focused and silent, whilst she looked through my notebook of handwritten poems…mostly in neat print which at times became cursive. After what seemed like an eon, she looked up at me and said “you write like Sylvia Plath” to which I replied “Who?“, as I had no idea who Sylvia Plath was at the time.
Like I’ve mentioned before – I wasn’t exposed to the best English literature at the working class public schools I attended growing up. For the most part and if I am speaking frankly, I don’t ever recall being taught anything about poetry or poets for that matter. The poets I had been exposed to were the ones I found on my own. These tended to be poets from the Romantic era like Byron, Shelley, Keats and Poe, as I had developed an obsession with the Victorian period as a teen.
Soon after, I found myself borrowing my friends copy of her collection of Sylvia Plath’s work and realized that my poetry did resemble her style. This was completely unintentional and worried me so much I stopped writing for a while. I was so fearful about not emulating that it made me stop creating any work at all!
Then, I finally read “The Bell Jar”. I completely resonated and understood where the protagonist was coming from. Something inside clicked. I released the expectation and worry I had placed upon myself.
I went back to writing poetry and I write the way I am compelled to. Whether it be free or rhyme, flowing or constructed, personal or observational – I don’t care what I sound like. As long as I am getting my feelings out and expressing myself as I feel compelled to, I feel good about it.
Syliva’s style was autobiographical and so is mine and we deal with the same subject matter of depression, disturbances and death. The older I get the more comfortable I get with my poetry and as long as I personally feel something when I write it, I will keep at it.
If you would like to read some of my work, here are a few poems I have written in the last year:
“Wear your heart on your skin in this life.”
― Sylvia Plath
(c) T. Altman 2017
A writers life can be a solitary undertaking but it doesn’t mean you are alone…
A Witch’s Life
When I was a child
there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch.
All day she peered from her second story
from behind the wrinkled curtains
and sometimes she would open the window
and yell: Get out of my life!
She had hair like kelp
and a voice like a boulder.
I think of her sometimes now
and wonder if I am becoming her.
My shoes turn up like a jester’s.
Clumps of my hair, as I write this,
curl up individually like toes.
I am shoveling the children out,
scoop after scoop.
Only my books anoint me,
and a few friends,
those who reach into my veins.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit,
opening the door for only
a few special animals?
Maybe my skull is too crowded
and it has no opening through which
to feed it soup?
Maybe I have plugged up my sockets
to keep the gods in?
Maybe, although my heart
is a kitten of butter,
I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
Yes. It is the witch’s life,
climbing the primordial climb,
a dream within a dream,
then sitting here
holding a basket of fire.