The Poetry Corner
favorites from Tracy's portfolio
The Poetry Corner
A related link is my new song lyrics page, The Golden Harp. Visit and enjoy the songs I love, stripped down to their most basic level: the lyrics.
Thanks so much, Mrs. Stelmach! All poems are copyrighted and any plagiarism of the poems herein will be punishable by law and Tracy's wrath.
The Music Box- This poem was written in 1997 and wow! again received an honorable mention in Hollin's Nancy Thorp contest. This time I paid attention to the number of entries, and it was hanging around the 2,000 mark. It also won first place in a local poetry contest (the Wednesday Club) and they paid me $100 for it! This one was written about a music box I retrieved from my old house in the Philippines. It's got a little round mirror with a revolving magnet underneath, and a little ballerina to spin around the mirror. Just as the poem describes, she was broken right at the ankle, and I brought her home (the States) and fixed her up.
Charm- This poem was written in 1996 for a couple of cute ball pythons who lived in the Oceanography room. They had nothing to do with oceanography, but I played with one of them almost every day, one hand holding a python, the other my pen. "Charm" received an honorable mention in Hollin's Nancy Thorp contest.
Parked in Winter- As is the case for most of my best work, this poem is highly sexual and very angry. At the time I was getting used to having the car to go to school, but unfortunately, the time was winter. Still, I was grateful for the privilege, because I didn't have to ride the bus, and no, I didn't mind the bus that much. Most of you know why I chose the hazards of winter driving over the hazards of taking the bus. I'll leave it at that.
My Poems Get Lost in the Mail- I cannot stress enough the importance of attending a class on writing poetry (especially if you're a poet.) It's fertile ground, and the poems are just waiting to happen. I am deeply indebted to Marjorie Stelmach not only for setting up this poem, but also for all her support and guidance through the years. This poem is about writing poems; the weird formatting is supposed to resemble pieces of mail fluttering down the page. "My Poems Get Lost in the Mail" appears in my seldom-seen book of poems (a.k.a. my final grade), "Self-Addressed Envelopes."
Packages- This is also in the aforementioned book of poems; it's in-keeping with the mailroom theme of the collection, and takes a light-hearted look at love and the poems written for love.
A Chronicle of Love- Also from "Self-Addressed Envelopes," this poem is more straightforward about the love aspect of love poetry. It's also a reminder of my childhood days in the Philippines when my favorite pastime was climbing the guava tree in front of our house.
The Music Boxarrived on the morning flight
with all the other remains,
its black plastic panels
masquerading as inlaid wood.
Within the chamber, I knew, slept a ballerina
daintier than my matchstick fingers,
with a fading wick of orange hair and a gauze tutu,
split at the ankle on the bleeding velvet.I lifted her cold mirror lake and spun
the key to see if the magnet would turn.
As the music trembled forward,
the lines of attraction changed and swept
the air around my fingers.
When I lowered her onto that bead of glue
I thought she might not hold. But on the second try,
her tiny metal feet met the waters
with a sound like a cracking match.
Now she twirls along the gilded edge
where no hands are close enough to break her,
until the gently fading tines
lull her in beds of clotted velvet.
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Top of Page | Previous | Next | Bottom of Page Parked in Winter
Ice splatters on the pavement,
Like shards from a broken window.
The wind moans, muttering its crystal
Whispers on the windshield:
I watch the hail accumulate on the wipers,
Piling into tiny crumbling spires. The glass
Invites my fist through,
To shatter into the cold twilight
And warm it with my blood.No;
Even then I might not find
The storming creed of destruction
That your eyes have signed for,
Long-fingered demons whose swords
Are not steel but ice. With these blades,
They swipe the steam from my lips;
I could wring my heart of blood
And empty every fire in my soul,
Still you would not listen.Go on then,
Build your fucking glaciers, but don't wonder
Why the rocks cut your feet
Or why it takes a thousand years
For you to reach summer, why the sun retreats
From your glances and disappears
Behind a storming sky. Is my love
So worthless that you would let me
Bleed in the snow?The wind shifts and
Icy turrets bend and topple. I am not inside,
But out, hovering over the dying headlights,
Sweeping hailstones off
The windshield with numbed hands.
The wind tells me nothing. The engine is warm,
Yet I remain; the keys are icicles
In my pocket, stabbing my thigh.
I will not move until glass melts,
Burns away the frigid seal of your silence,
My blood trembling to thaw
Those icy halls.Top of Page | Previous | Next | Bottom of Page Packages
How did your desire
enter my poem?
Now it burgles
the mailroom of my heart,
labeling all my laughter
for different destinations.
Writing of it,
I watch out
for its tell-tale stamp
before I misplace
myself.Top of Page | Previous | Next | Bottom of Page A Chronicle of Love
toes and arches curl
around the knobby jigsaw skin,
fingers scamper
across each familiar twig,
brushing off guava paper
like crisp lightning
until my eyes forget
my feet, and hands grab
a phantom branch
planted firmly in the skyTop of Page | Previous | Next | Bottom of Page My Poems Get Lost in the Mail
my poems
get lost
in the mail
they slip into slots
in self-addressed envelopes
postage
paid(and that's the miracle)
the next morning
they're
gone
the chutes
to be sorted
and scattered,
and jumbled all over
the earth(and that's the work)
but eventually
they come
ambling home
like mail
at the bottom
of a dark blue box
shredded into mere postcards(and that's the sorrow)
they never arrive
at the same time
whatever the weather
they've come unglued
and they're all addressed
to me(and that's the fun)
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