Not Those Timid Souls

Sometimes I wish all I ever had to do is watch Netflix. Perhaps one day.

My name is Bea and I love television and film. I love The Daily Show and Colbert, Sherlock, How I Met Your Mother, The Office, Parks and Recreation, New Girl, and Breaking Bad. My favorite movies are too many to list, but I will post about them when it's relevant and when I watch great new ones. I mention these things because I really think that a person's preference (or dislike) of certain TV shows or movies says so much about them.

I'm not sure what else to say at the moment and there's so much pressure (eek), so here are two poems I've written instead. Which is funny, because I've always sort of hated poetry. It's a love-hate relationship. Here is my first actual poem, one that I like and that actually feels to me the way a poem should feel, and the other is an assignment we had to do for my creative writing class where we describe ourselves in unconventional ways with things and objects, in the style of Edward C. Corral. 

The first poem was inspired by a quote by Theodore Roosevelt, which ends:
"...Who at worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat."

Not Those Timid Souls

She is covered in goodbyes.

Daring

Bared

She knows defeat

He looks like pity. He stares,

She is his laughter. She is:

At, with,

because of.

Eyes-squeezed

Clothed in winks,

The tattered remains of second chances.

Her hours drip with him.

That suitcase, yellow leather

Held him inside.

Skin on slippery muscle

Limbs raw from friction

In the supple leather of this shell

The suitcase stores him

Scrawled in red felt tip

Her hand is goodbye for now,

What she will say

He will believe. There is no

Space for this suitcase. Three

Years is so many

Hours that drip.

He wants like wanting. Not choice

Coarse sutures and

Twine

Hope rots

With trench foot years

They

are a crimson almost

Not those timid souls

A Self-Portrait

I'm long river and green.

      I'm filthy prospector gold

and campfire coals. I'm red

     and reading

hands grasped to an eagle and parrot

     in the banlieue. Salt pours, sticking to my

eyelash

     and gluing my teeth. I'm

a fisherman

     on a boulder in

underwater. I am a document

     half-silent

but louder than half

     an eaten typewriter

soft from repeated washings

     with bleach unpasteurized

milk on plaster and 

     splinters

rosy yogurt drips

     on my birkenstocks

creaking in bulges

     and eloquent growls

portraying babble

     comprehensible

I'm small country

     kitchen. Beached crab

and too much small.