#siobhan bledsoe

[wallacebarker]

August 2013

by Siobhan Bledsoe

august 2013

was the month i decided to ditch art school MFA

san francisco and a chance for a beginning overlooking the Pacific

even though when i flew out i smoked a joint with a stranger and felt at

peace.

the month where i gave up my room for the romance of transience

which meant getting drunk almost every night at Irene’s . . . $2 PBRS, shots.

i got fake engaged this month, he claimed love at first sight,

we drew rings with Bic pens on

each others fingers and Instagrammed it;

i found my other magnet:

we’d lay on his cot in his studio without a bathroom door

and hold hands, wake up at 10:22 AM, he’s off to work—no

time for coffee,

peeing in front of someone isn’t that vulnerable.

i shared the toothbrushes of at least five people and carried deodorant,

a change of clothes, must and perfume. church pews make for

good naps if you light a candle out of rusty

catholic guilt afterwards.

i still don’t know if i’m engaged but either way

we’ll have a party: disengagement or a bash on a farm somewhere green

music plays, wine is paid for.

august was the month i took a seven hour

bus ride down to Truro with $5 in my pocket (dunkin donut hashbrowns; water)

to visit my father and his second family, jumped into the ocean hoping

it’d wipe some of the depression away that has settled like a heavy

fog;

my exboyfriend was/is a heroin addict was a real august realization

that liars lie, that the dialogue is more complicated than

"you’re an ADDICT" reduction, but, still, FUCK YOU, how many times

did i worry i’d wake up and you’d be dead beside me? sometimes humans suck,

sometimes.

august was the month of sex, sex with

a rich hippie who had a girlfriend (surprise!) but he took me to L’Avventura

anyway and i took away my self­esteem by sleeping with him that night,

he’d make eye contact while inside of me and then i’d stare at his painting

hanging

over his bed, a portrait of a chinese man wearing a hat that said "follow your

heart" there

are so many words within "follow your heart" ­­­ i’d trace them as

i’d trace his back. ALLOW, ALLAY, YORE, YURT, HURT.

august: where friends became real and revealed, where

i needed leeway not judgment

and found those that gave it (friend liz; anointed sister)

the month i spent two days in bed

with annie smoking js watching Netflix while she waited for her German

boyfriend to return -­­ massages always help.

i did the same at omars, our eyes binge ate all of "house of cards"

kevin spacey, that voice.

the month i looked for a job and found one just yesterday, my uniform

will be all black + a turquoise red bull, the month where i ignored my

mom for two weeks because she was all "back to Boston" but no i was too busy

learning that change really added up to money, usually a single ride

metrocard, the month when i had to e­mail my therapist on vacation and have a

panic attack over the "subject line" so i took more anti­anxiety pills and

that never ends well, where a BOA employee talked to me about my history of

overdrafting.

what else doesn’t end well? having sex and not peeing after, that decision goes straight to your kidneys and then 1,500 MG of Amoxicillin later

you can breathe without hurting.

[electric-cereal]

Siobhan Bledsoe is a poet and photographer living in Brooklyn. She has been published in The Quietus, Human Parts, and New Wave Vomit. Follow her on Tumblr and Twitter.

http://www.electriccereal.com/on-eggs-on-depression/

[altlitgossip]

'Navigate Me' by Siobhan Bledsoe

http://newwavevomit.com/underground/threepoemsbysiobhanbledsoe/

[banangolit]

National Poetry Month: April 25

Today's poem is untitled by Siobhan Bledsoe.

Siobhan Bledsoe is a poet whose work I have written about before. There is something about her style that I just find appealing-- whimsical but still thoughtful and more than a little mischievous. Maybe it's her name but I'm always reminded of those Irish poets whose poems have a sort of natural lyrical quality. I'm thinking of poets like Dylan Thomas and W.B. Yeats.

I also think about how liking a poem often involves liking the poet. I don't know Siobhan but her spirit is evident in the work. She seems like a lovely person and her breezy, generous personality bleeds right through her poems. Sincere and full of wonderment, she's like an antidote to the listless, apathetic pose so many young poets affect.

untitled

i don't want to be the kind of person who misses you while being with you. but, i do. so imagine when you're gone. basho said something like this about summer. maybe it has to do with anticipation, waiting.

it's like the backwash of iced coffee; such little caramel, so much gloomy water & ashamed ice. i miss you caffeine. but, water: you're necessary.

i've never felt more beautiful than with you, during, after, & before. but, i've never been as worried that i'll become less beautiful, rapidly to someone, than to you.

my tits are out, pointed at the sun. why am i sad on a sunny day? should i call them tits? you didn't want to stick your finger in my ass-- is this the same feeling of purity seems ugly. they haven't been happier since you spit on them, & held my rose nipple in your mouth.

then the other.

please, the other one.

symmetry.

how are people sane enough, confident enough, capable enough, consistent enough, to fly a helicopter through the air?

the least i can give those people, i'd call them people, are my tits. though they probably can't see them. just rooftops & blocks of color & the summer shimmer of the city.

but anyway, it isn't all about me. yesterday, a dude tried to impress me by telling me that over thinking doesn't mean i'm more intelligent. it sounded good.

i don't want to be a person who "sounds good". you've taught me that there can be illusion & substance. okay, i need another beer? it may be too early for most but

today it feels how we do; so beautiful in a place that isn't always. let's hide in the open, like these breasts protected by the thought of you.

[no-lotus]

untitled by siobhan bledsoe

i worry that because i don't focus on the structure of my poems they are vapid, lazy. i'd rather not tamper.

  its painful to recognize the difference between love and like & how i may be loved because moms are born to love but i know im not liked & i know its more complicated than that divide &

maybe my mom shouldn't have had kids like i shouldn't have kids because depression is unfair to unload on innocents. sorry i wasn't a boy. she wanted boys. i tried. one time i was caught wearing boxers and going to the bathroom standing up so she'd love me more. i think i even made a whooshing pee sound. i haven't done that in a long while. the boxers were maroon & navy. i want to say they were GI Joe made for a GI Jane.

i try to understand her pragmatism, i respect her pragmatism, & i know my interests aren't lucrative but i'm trying & i still want to jump on every crunchy leaf & then move on to Marian's smile and live within it for a while. her smile feels like the opposite of brain surgery.

  all i remember from my brain surgery was yelling for morphine, experiencing the limitations of pain, & throwing a jello at my sister. no jello flavors are good flavors. 

for the first time after the surgery i felt like i had a family. my dad & i walked through the west village & he even bought me a necklace with magic mushrooms on it at a small boutique. it took 25 years but i understood what some of my friends grew up with. this isn't a pity party because i have a future that starts with a tweet and evolves into a poem & on may 3rd i get to seekim gordon and there's a man who lives in a place i envy. i know love & envy aren't friends. maybe step cousins; questionable re: the unconditional. i think i could make it with him. i'd call him a partner. we'd laugh at the ambiguity of that term. last time i saw him we hung out with a historical performer. he even had a James Madison business card. an abrasive punk band played upstairs while his gentle, studied voice played downstairs.

we got into his van with a plate that said JMSMAD (how many characters fit on a vanity plate? six?)

he got lost. GPS was before his time. we got out between harvard & central square and walked straight into a blazing fire on a rainy night; heavy silence & respectable intent. i love to watch firemen work, but i don't like what they need to extinguish.

maybe i have to figure out what i need to extinguish and work from there.

[johnreaganart]

Interesting Find: Poem written by Siobhan Bledsoe that includes an interesting thought on one of my paintings published on The Quietus….. (the painting was in a private collection by this point, but always nice to find your art a part of someone else's) august 2013 was the month i decided to ditch art school MFA san francisco and a chance for a beginning overlooking the Pacific even though when i flew out i smoked a joint with a stranger and felt at peace. the month where i gave up my room for the romance of transience which meant getting drunk almost every night at Irene’s . . . $2 PBRS, shots. i got fake engaged this month, he claimed love at first sight, we drew rings with Bic pens on each others fingers and Instagrammed it; i found my other magnet: we'd lay on his cot in his studio without a bathroom door and hold hands, wake up at 10:22 AM, he’s off to work---no time for coffee, peeing in front of someone isn't that vulnerable. i shared the toothbrushes of at least five people and carried deodorant, a change of clothes, must and perfume. church pews make for good naps if you light a candle out of rusty catholic guilt afterwards. i still don't know if i'm engaged but either way we'll have a party: disengagement or a bash on a farm somewhere green music plays, wine is paid for. august was the month i took a seven hour bus ride down to Truro with $5 in my pocket (dunkin donut hashbrowns; water) to visit my father and his second family, jumped into the ocean hoping it'd wipe some of the depression away that has settled like a heavy fog; my exboyfriend was/is a heroin addict was a real august realization that liars lie, that the dialogue is more complicated than "you're an ADDICT" reduction, but, still, FUCK YOU, how many times did i worry i'd wake up and you'd be dead beside me? sometimes humans suck, sometimes. august was the month of sex, sex with a rich hippie who had a girlfriend (surprise!) but he took me to L'Avventura anyway and i took away my self­esteem by sleeping with him that night, he'd make eye contact while inside of me and then i'd stare at his painting hanging over his bed, a portrait of a chinese man wearing a hat that said "follow your heart" there are so many words within "follow your heart" ­­­ i'd trace them as i'd trace his back. ALLOW, ALLAY, YORE, YURT, HURT. august: where friends became real and revealed, where i needed leeway not judgment and found those that gave it (friend liz; anointed sister) the month i spent two days in bed with annie smoking js watching Netflix while she waited for her German boyfriend to return -­­ massages always help. i did the same at omars, our eyes binge ate all of "house of cards" kevin spacey, that voice. the month i looked for a job and found one just yesterday, my uniform will be all black + a turquoise red bull, the month where i ignored my mom for two weeks because she was all "back to Boston" but no i was too busy learning that change really added up to money, usually a single ride metrocard, the month when i had to e­mail my therapist on vacation and have a panic attack over the "subject line" so i took more anti­anxiety pills and that never ends well, where a BOA employee talked to me about my history of overdrafting. what else doesn't end well? having sex and not peeing after, that decision goes straight to your kidneys and then 1,500 MG of Amoxicillin later you can breathe without hurting. for more by Siobhan visit http://thequietus.com/articles/13334-two-poems-siobhan-bledsoe & http://andthenilistenedtomyself.tumblr.com/

[reckon]

What I learned on a Wine Tour A chateau isn’t the same as a castle. Barns filled with wine urinals exist. Processing smells like horse poop and drunken grapes. I am too damn young for this. Give me more wine or let me sleep­­-- --on the tour bus, while the rest of us young acting old assholes, smell, swish, study, and sophisticate. ~.~ Poem By: Siobhan Bledsoe via The Quietus

[no-lotus]

Love Poem by siobhan bledsoe

You’re exempt from all of my unfair, broad and petty generalizations.

 -

If you use too many exclamation points, you wouldn’t

get under my nonexclamatory skin.

If you highly valued The National I may feel squeamish,

but I was once into the way they sang sad, too.

If you self-identified as a “poet” my reaction could be favorable;

there are times I question Patti Smith, then I hear her sing, speak.

I’m fed bullshit so often; I’m skeptical of the real.

But, I’d never be skeptical of you. Even if I momentarily,

was skeptical of me.

And if you still negotiated with a G-d---

I’ll give up smoking, if I can just get a record deal,

I would judge you neither for that negotiation

nor the fact you want a record deal.

Ambition would be passion with you,

the drive for success would be because

if you didn’t share yourself, you’d end

up with a bullet, self-inflicted, in your head.          

If you forgot to write a suicide note, or

if it came off as ironic,

I’d read Virginia Woolf’s suicide note,

(I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been)

take from it,

and then I’d leave another.

 -

After all, you weren’t in the right mind to express your pain. You’re a good writer.