January 2012
3 posts
1 tag
Tension
They call it quiver because an archer is supposed to hesitate before he shoots. Arrows, fresh or trusted, are works of art, crafted, and exist in their own right. You, too, exist in your own right, and are scared before you shoot. We all are. They call it quiver because an archer reaches down and the arrow shakes. Even with grave practice, and the steadiest of hands, the arrow will shake for its...
1 tag
the single.
when you put your hand on the table i could feel your pulse through the wood.
i closed my eyes then, imagined crawling and pressing my ear to your chest to hear your heart beat, to feel your heart. opening, i reached out to your shirt. but i could never bear to touch.
The Guilt that Accompanies Sinking
I picture us both riding the same waves, and sometimes we synch. The waves that flow between us link up so perfectly it’s hard to stand that sometimes, I know I sink under and we loose balance with the other. Our eye contact is under-maintained as the salt water makes its way inside. Blurring and also cold. But also waves like the ones you can’t see but bring you the tv and radio and...
December 2011
1 post
The Safety Blanket
I dreamed about whales and watching them, after I met you. Beneath me and the water they jutted out from nowhere or a crack in the glass of the aquarium.
And whales are so big, bigger than picture books could ever prepare you. The orca even, as big as my first-story house and the humpback, grey like clouds only closer: like fog. The whales were so close beneath by feet, my soles felt their...
November 2011
8 posts
1 tag
Lily of the Valley
there is a darkness in the spaces between a frame and the wall, a closet and the clothes, a painting and the edges. there is light
also- gushing from the source the lightbulb burning through the glass and the red of your palm. maybe your bones have had enough- of the push and pull of living like you will forever. and your heart too, because you won’t. and then, the strain of your neck-...
1 tag
you/new shoes
I want you like a blister I’m so used to feeling the sting of it’s a shock when I reach for it weeks later and it’s healed.
1 tag
on falling in love in a library
hello. my heart stirs. you push me to every- thing and I ask for no- thing in return. well the difference is I’m fine on my own and you’re still waiting on my reply. can we pretend no- thing ever happened? no things ever can. me and you, we’re just babies swimming up rivers, look at you in your basket. but I’d bet on you never in- viting me in. well b- aby, show me where...
1 tag
so much depends on
the plums so delicious and so cold fit into my palm like a hand clutching mine too. the act of biting plums shows how in love you are like the juice dripping down your chin and someone else’s too. this is just to say that, maybe, share your plums. they’re only yours before they are taken or spoil.
1 tag
Myths
Is it so much to ask to be treated like a shell or a little flower inside a shell, to be treated delicately like I might break? I don’t mean chivalry or from your desire to control. Sometimes I just feel so soft like I might crumble underneath the weight of it all. A bird’s egg that you took and now my mother doesn’t love me. Well, I’ll fend for myself. I can take care of...
Internalized Misogyny, or, Why a Woman Could Never...
I see you with your bundled scarves of designs reminiscent of places I’ve never been, and I’m going to guess you haven’t either. There’s always someone who surprises me and makes me remember why I don’t make it a habit of judging someone when I’m in a good mood. You’re so elegant, your long legs are so thin, and the frailness of your bones meet skin is...
1 tag
Three Letters To The Same Person Probably
I. Great Artists Steal Build a library of books you’d like to read eventually. Every day they stare at you, stare back. Threaten the knowledge inside like it is nothing, because it isn’t. Knowledge is nothing really, but a great umbrella to keep the rain of insecur- ity out of your hair. Your hair will always get wet, so no matter: knowledge isn’t power but a defense. This is...
1 tag
For what it's worth
For what it’s worth to you I have only have two moods and both stem from the same root. The two moods are passionate, and frightful. The root is exhaustion. Like the root of a word, but also the root of a tree, on the tip of my tongue, or deeper.
Passion and fright! you say, What an exhausting existence! To go from one extreme to the other, so quickly, at the drop of a hat! You must be...
October 2011
2 posts
1 tag
how to bake a cake
First, take a cup of flour. Look it sternly in the eyes, with yours. Let it know you mean business. You’re in control. Don’t forget it. Next, crack two eggs. Don’t get any yolk on you; not even bleach will lift that stain from your conscious. You’re going to want to mix this with oil and water: Don’t. Finally, it’s time to put this in the oven. You’ve...
1 tag
Soft/Thickheaded, or, A Poem For Two Boys.
There is no passion in your mouth when you say it. There is no spark in your eye. You speak about dancing, but won’t let the record spin. And I don’t need a revolution, I don’t- You say you want power, a tool of the bourgeoisie. You want to dominate. You see some as less-than, you know, if they’re not willing to learn. You know all. And I don’t need another lesson, I...
September 2011
4 posts
1 tag
in the absence of roots
the sky yawns, ready to take or give and you- the smallest bead dripping- sink through the soil and pool, having earned your rest today.
2 tags
The Choice
It is only here, when the monstrous wad of tissues soaked in Feeling Too Much For Your Own Good is coughed up like a ball made from the hair on your arms- and put into a trash, then into another, far, far away where you know, eventually, it will be incinerated.
It is only here, when the last bead of sweat Is sewn onto your favourite cardigan (the one you slept in because it smelled like the...
BLUE, like hurt.
I would like to spend until I’m numb I would like to bruise I would like to be sallow as the cold Feel the ice in my stomach Stick to metal with my tongue.
2 tags
The Garden (blank verse assignment)
The blisters on your fingers fade, the skin willing and eager for the pain to heal; It begins. Take these things, learn to be free: the sun and the moon; the stars and the sea. Your breaths are the tides the floating rock keeps. Stars light far away places (at least far from here) and the waves will carry you there. And the sun they say asks for nothing in Return for all it gives. So may your...
August 2011
1 post
1 tag
A Cavity
my hands are smokey sweet but you can’t be both unless you try. but I try and try: so here.
the space between each limb each joint and bone… the air that dips and surrounds each digit and scratch curves down and pulls up- the tick and the tickle, the tap:
each space is filled with something else like your voice or your hand. Or else, empty. Empty.
July 2011
1 post
1 tag
O, Poetry!
Deeper than the gap between myself and my wildest dreams! Loftier than blankets stitched with safety in their seams! I cower back as you look me sternly in the eye, shaking me by my wrists, and daring me to cry! I’m sure were you to step away for just the night, I’d find the tidal waves within me would finally subside. But O, Poetry, were there to come a day you’d find me fit...
June 2011
3 posts
1 tag
dear moon,
I turned my head for I knew just where to look; the gravity pulls me up. I never doubt for a moment, for doubt insinuates fear- of which I have none. For everything that could ever daunt, I have you instead.
1 tag
On Embers
Hello, please take me. Because I can feel my limbs giving. And I breathe in like normal But what I breathe in is bursting; And the sparks sizzle in my veins- Those little streams of blood and saline Are boiling. And to touch Would be singeing. The well of unknown, of mere speculation, (The reservoir of imagined somethings That enable us to live) Is igniting. And I breathe out fire, And inhale a...
Still is the night
Still is the night; Are the windows shut? Were the wind to come in I would shudder- To feel the outside Instead of the shake I feel from the breaths That escape from within As the stirring comes From inside.
May 2011
11 posts
1 tag
To be carried
So much depends on me sitting here by the window and I can feel wind like I can feel everything from forever and the condensing is like clothing or a covering that I change in to when I want to play. It is my nightgown also and my satin sash. The difference between the temperature of flat heat and breeze like past and present or future and memory. Perceive what may be but- I am here dependable as...
2 tags
haiku #13
under the blanket, I hear rain pitter patter and my skin is hot.
1 tag
There Isn't Anything
There is dust and there is passion And they are different things. There is no passion is dust And no dust in passion. I feel drained and squeezed and dried And now dust collects around me while My passion erodes the pipes. I’ve done a lot of digging and I’ve discovered a few jewels with rocks While you lounge around pondering The difference between jewels and rocks. You say there...
4 tags
Creepy Love
the sound of the noises in your throat the dark blues of the thinnest skin and the veins underneath.
the pits of fruit under your eyes the deep abyss the deep, dark, unforgiving abyss of your throat and your collar. the sound of a heater and then- caught.
2 tags
Stumbling Love, Part III
there is a lot I don’t know and a lot that I do but, walking down aisles of things with you is a thing I’d like to do. and there are parks we could visit, we could sit in the shade. and there are stories we could tell and the sun would beat down on our heads and your face.
I do this thing with people, where I imagine them as unreal: you couldn’t be as great and as wonderful as I...
2 tags
haiku #12
“Under certain lights, my fingernails glow purple,” I observe, and bite.
2 tags
stumbling love, part II
coddle your knees in your hands, gripping close to your chest. your heart beats under your breast and your skin turns red from the heat.
and then, your limbs carelessly sprawl and onto the floor they spill. your gaze could keep me against my will; but I would not like to leave you here.
4 tags
haiku #11
there are hills and hills and mountains you’ll never climb; also, ones you will.
4 tags
haiku #10
Some flowers are red, Where as some others are blue. Both: allergenic.
2 tags
Stumbling Love
I heard your name to-day and it made me think of you and it made me shiver like you always do.
I saw you last night; you looked far away and, dark under low lights you didn’t look any prettier or any less than you always do. and I heard your name first; and I wanted you to look up and see me too but you kept your eyes low like you always do. and you have the nicest eyelashes and the pinkest...
3 tags
To Smolder
I want to cause violence in you and be the source of your waves; I want your bones to rattle at the mere glimpse of my frame. I want to stir your insides, and I want to cause them pain; I want to make you ache for me, even during, and then after again.
April 2011
9 posts
3 tags
Untitled (Like A Top)
And so we’ve concluded that life’s the act of tilting. Some things remain consistent: general shapes, colors, design; The materials will be, have been, the same forever.
But oh! The urge to get so dizzy from the shift in focus, (Eyes drifing back into our heads) the subject out of view; For the tilt is from spinning, and we all land on our stomachs…
Save the few of us who will...
5 tags
the same thing.
Teetering between too much and nothing. I want, I want, I want, but of what? There are moments I fill and think, Perfect, The deciding is over: I’ll stay full forever. But I never do; you know I don’t, baby. Something inside me needs to be empty.
3 tags
Sonnet #1
A darkened river collects beneath frames Whose glass reflects glances I’d ache to forget. You are deep, red, singeing embers from flames, Soft light: the sun perpetually in set. Your voice like water running through the rocks: Thoughtful, steady, the calm before a storm. Still with intent of an electrical shock, Your words burst and spark; their heat keeps me warm. My eyelashes batte down,...
3 tags
Our Negative Space
If your body were near mine I would not reach out to touch. I would not warm my toes under your thighs, or my hands between yours. If your body were here, I would not stretch my back And slowly spread onto you. I would not budge from my seat. I know how you would feel, Your skin radiating under clothing, Trapping heat to give to me. Were your hair To brush me, mine would start to stand. But your...
4 tags
the test.
My body always hurts now. I remember the bruises and the broken and the blisters and the lack of validation in ruddy blues and greys: how cold feels and eyes water. Nourishment is like the sunshine. Sunshine feeds also, and so does air, and soft things and blankets on the grass to stretch out on, bright greens in sweet contrast to the pinks of inside mouths. I am overcome with fear, remembering....
hello lovely followers. Just so you know, the tumblr previously called “ohpoems” (i.e. my poetry tumblr) is now called “katiejacobsen”, and the tumblr that used to be called “katiejacobsen” (i.e. my personal tumblr) is now called “ladiebear”. thank you all for following meeeeee, love, katie.
5 tags
haiku #9
It’s hard to sleep when The fire in one’s belly Continues to roar.
4 tags
The Embrace
When the puddles open up from the ground, And spill upwards into the sky, you’ll know. Nothing collects unless you want it, And, after darkening, shadows love to shrink. Soon your heart isn’t too tender to open and the pricks on your fingers have healed. And the spots that are too hurt to touch Are callused and tough and ready to touch The sharp things that hurt them; not to hurt but...
4 tags
You Are
you looked into the window and your breathing made the glass hot; by the time your nose touched, it was cold.
your face got so close your eyelashes felt like they were being torn off; your vision blurred and the glass was gone. your words caught under your tongue, you said It looks so pretty, but not pretty like me; I’m pretty like a waterfall, and this is pretty like a store.
March 2011
26 posts
5 tags
The Slant Towards The Written Word
It is the difference between dipping your finger into wet cement and looping it around to form I Was, and digging your knife into the fence to carve the mark I Am.
4 tags
haiku #8
Even the vessel That remains empty, unused, Will still get dirty.
6 tags
The Sex of Thistles
The pit of a peach is always ignored: from spending its life as the core of a fruit, to be promptly spit out at the end of its life. Ah yes, but that’s the trick, isn’t it? While the sweet soft encasement does end its life, the pit of a peach still remains.
K.A.T.I.E.
Keep reading this acrostic poem. After you’re done, you’ll know a lot about me! Tell me your secrets and I will hold them close. I like to cry a lot. En Fin.
4 tags
A Metaphor
Standing in the fork of two paths diverging, I would choose the one shadier, hidden, whose branches twisted up its fragrant, blossomed trees. Were I to come across another traveler, searching for her path as well, I don’t suppose I’d take her choice into consideration.
5 tags
thirsty
I suppose I would like to be something sizzling, burning crackling bright and yellow. Or better: pink and misting, hot, wet and simmering, check back on me and stir. I’d be never something sloppy, mashed or scrapped together last second, without thinking. Time was taken, now I’m fizzing: cherries gushing, pineapple ringing, there is sugar around the rim.
The juice, dripping, stains...