YWP Newsletter- 4/8/19
It looks like Vermont is finally going to be getting some steady warm weather these next few weeks (knock on wood) so enjoy it! I love to go outside in the spring it feels a little like waking up after the long-sluggish winter. I recommend, if you have a spare minute, to go find a large oak tree on a hill and climb it barefoot- I have first-hand experience that the view is wonderful and it helps with that spring alive feeling. Keep taking beautiful pictures like the one above by LadyMidnight and share them on YWP so your photos can appear next in the Newsletter. Happy April!
As usual, the following is an intro to the YWP Newsletters. Feel free to skip ahead if you're a regular.
Welcome to the YWP Newsletter, curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, Recommend work for Publication, Create Challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining... we aim for variety to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give these creators a wider audience, provide our busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some of the pieces we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: check out the other newsletters, and share the link with others who may enjoy it.
Contributors to this week's newsletter: LadyMidnight, Icestorm, Graceful, eyesofIris, Ice Blink, and irishjayne.
i bet no one ever told you
that poets are liars.
they are gifted with the curse
of spinning tragedies into fairytales,
like straw into gold.
because before blood was beautiful,
it was brutal.
it was the animal desire to survive,
scarlet rusted on wolf fangs,
a deadly tapestry dyed on fur.
because before hunger was attractive,
it was abuse.
it was a half-dead city rat
with bones like blades,
starving under a starless sky.
because before addiction was normal,
it was neglect.
it was broken bottles and cigarette stubs,
craving and carving,
thoughts like curdled milk rotting inside a skeleton.
because before mental health became a competition
pain was not coveted.
what poets do not tell you
is ars longa, vita brevis:
art is long, life is short.
Photo taken by Graceful
Broken rulers have no way to measure, and
I think fragile is another word for scared to fall.
Dusty lemons make me feel sick,
and I take back everything I just said.
Lemon scented letters-
Hands are wild adventurers.
Iris thinks the world should move slower.
Photo taken by Ice Blink
The Inconvenience of Memory
Easy to forget the important things,
French verb forms,
the oven you left on.
So why can't I forget
the color of nail polish I was wearing?
my cherry earrings,
how one of my socks was white and
the other was cream (some unimportant Thursday.)
I remember the eye color
of every person I've ever liked
all the words to
camp songs, insurance jingles,
plot points of "Grey's Anatomy," season 8,
who sat next to me our last dinner in Galway,
the worst thing my mother has ever said to me.
Things that don't matter anymore.
Things that never mattered.
Things I'd like to forget.
Things I'd quickly replace with
the equation of a parabola,
or the molecular weight of water.
But my memory has a sense of humor.