Ars Poetica

So simply said
Some serious sayings.
Stacked slightly slanted,
So serious.
Sarah said something
Silly, sarcastic, strange
Scrawled said scrap,
Spawned sublimity.

My Obsession

I'm not superhuman,
but you should have known me by now.
I keep it caged,
but I can't contain it.
Starving for your attention,
I've traded everything I have
for this one thing.
But my demons lay in waiting.
Will tomorrow be too late?
You're my escape from this messed up place.
I can't escape this love.
How long can we hold on?
I can feel you in my sleep.
Don't wake me,
'cause I don't wanna leave this dream.
Don't say good-bye,
I don't wanna believe that it's gotta be this way.
Don't leave me stranded,
there's nothing left to lose.
There's nothing left to prove.
Surrender your love,
It's all you can do.
You know I'm never far,
hear the whispers in the dark.

-All words taken from Skillet lyrics.

Reading You

I watched your face
as you read these few poems
and I wonder if I should have showed you.
I wonder if they will scare you,
or just freak you out.
I wonder if one will make you sad.
I wonder if it will change everything
or anything.

I watched your face
as you read these few poems.
The happy ones made you happy.
the angry one made your face freeze.
You showed nothing. Empty.
A poker face.

Should I have showed you that part?
What do you think about it?
Can you deal with the pain
I felt before?
I can't put the blame on you,
It hurts too much now
to hurt you.

I want to see past your face,
As you read these few poems.
I want to read the inside of your mind,
Like it's a book I can't put down
And have to keep reading until 3am
and I fall asleep with it on my chest.

I want to read you.
I want your emotions laid out
in front of me.
In front of pretty pictures,
for everyone to see.

I took these words from your moth and gave them back to you

You kissed me
delirious.
I should be sorry
about that
but I'm not.
You're dangerous
and I like it
I can't wait for the day
when good-night doesn't
mean good-bye.

Our Story

This is not a fairytale
I'm not a princess to be saved.
Nor will you swoop in on a
white steed to rescue me.

This is not a Shakespearean play.
I'm not playing a game,
and you wont't need to kill
anyone to save our love.

This is not a Disney movie.
All our parents are alive
and there is no magic,
talking animals, or evil villains.

This is real life.
It may feel like the world is out to get us.
And who doesn't like to be treated like a princess?
But this is real.
This is ours.
And it will last as long as we make it.

The Writer

I'm sorry about the times that I space-out.
The writer in my soul is drafting
and you seem to inspire her.
Don't take my silence, when you whisper love in my ear,
as indifference.
I can't share until I draft, edit, and finalize.
LEt me show my love through my pen.
I'll send you written copies of Browning's sonnets.
"How do I love thee?"
Let me love you through my words.
Written for you.
I'll make you my leading man,
wooing my protagonist in Europe,
or Brazil, the setting isn't set yet.
You're in my every novel plot and poem.
I'm sorry I can't say it well enough.
Follow my pen.
It will show you.

I'm so frustrated I could very well scream and wake the neighbors because of my own stupidity.(Revise)

Spent most of the night teasing you.
Winding you up like
a jack-in-the-box.
Waited for you to explode.

But you didn't.
And that's probably a
good thing.
You sent me home
out your door.

It had gotten colder,
and my shoes click, click, clicked
across the sidewalk as I left.
Lyle, your creepy neighbor,
waved as I walked past.
It is a good thing.
I couldn't have dealt with
the aftermath.

I'm so frustrated I could very well scream and wake the neighbors from their peaceful dreamlands because of my own stupidity.

Spent most of the night teasing you.
Winding you up like
a jack-in-the-box.
Waited for you to strike.

But you didn't.
And that's probably a
good thing.

It had gotten colder,
and my shoes click-click-clicked
across the sidewalk as I left.
It is a good thing.
I couldn't have dealt with
the aftermath.

A Reason (revise)

IT keeps hounding me.
That voice that sounds eerily like my mother
but with a bit more judgement thrown in
for good measure.
IT thrives on guilt.
Poking like a sliver stuck in your sock,
the kind you can't see, but you know IT is there.
Clean
Bake
Drink
All at once.
I'm doing all I can to ignore her. oops.
I mean IT.
There's a reason I don't keep a gun
in the house.

Dangerous, Treacherous, Hazardous You (Revise)

I know
how your hands feel
in my hair
or
against my back
or
clutched between mine.

I know
how your lips feel
against my cheek
or
down my neck
or slow against mine.

Stop

Sit up and move away.
Away from the warmth
of you.

Those hazardous lips
treacherous hands
dangerous you.

In Response to Her Damn Horses

Can any woman
write a book of poetry
that doesn’t portray
men as
repressing
conniving
dictators
whose only goal
is to
kill
steal
and destroy?

Looking inside the dark

“You don’t have a shadow”
Comes the whispery breath of a voice
From the perch on my left shoulder.
“And if you did, no one would believe it.”

Castle in the Air

Do you know
how may nights
I’ve looked forward
to sleep
because I let myself
dream of you?

A Mushy Poem I Never Saw Coming

I think it has to do with your hair.
The dark chocolate strands
Curling and turning
Tickling
So smooth between my fingers
Falling messily on your brows.
Speaking of brows
Your eyes might be it.
Mossy green
No
Yellowy green
No
You green.
Yes, you green.
Fringed by massive lashes
They put my own mascara laden eyes to shame.
When you blink
They brush your cheeks,
Oh my gosh, your cheeks.
Perfectly balanced with that strong jaw
Defined, sharp
When you move your mouth,
The muscles beneath ripple and stretch taunt.
Taunting me.
But you’re not perfect.
There’s that mole on your cheek,
It’s kind of big.
And you tend to forget spots when you shave.
And sometimes
When you open your mouth
You say the weirdest things.
Then again,
That’s part of it.
That’s part of why I love you

Rage

Rage
Based on the painting titled Rage by Brenda Jones

You took my hands with you.
I can’t change anything.
You took my feet too.
I can’t run from it.
I still remember the snarl of your lip,
the look of disgust after.
Like maybe you regretted it. Or not.
Maybe you were disgusted by me.
The bloody mangled remains of my youthful body,
laying prostrate on the graying white sheet.
There might have been regret in your eyes.
Sorrow. For the pain you inflicted
Sorrow. In the deep creases of your eyes.
But that came later. Probably.

Monster. Did you feel bad?
I still see you in the crowds,
in the faces of angry strangers shoving past.
I’m older now, and you’re gone,
but you’re still in my head.
Are you sorry?
As you burn in hell, are you sorry?

Our Circles End

I want to loathe you.
Tell you to stay away.
Until I am near you,
then I pray you’ll stay.
Do you see me?
As more than a friend?
Or am I just
your girl pretend?
To satiate your need
Until the time
you find the next girl
to glut your mind.
But here I am
waiting for you again
Is this a circle?
Can it be our end?

Eminence (Revise)

Standing on the edge of this cliff. Timid.
Tremulous waters below, lapping at the stone.

My quaking feet knock pebbles in the foaming
fingers that reach up, trying to grasp my ankles.

He is down there. He’s asking me to jump,
to collapse into his unyielding, rock steady grip.

I stagger back from the precipice, the boundary, the brink.
Unsure of his dependability, his stability.

If I jump, I may stumble. I may crash. I may die.
Or I may just miss his arms completely.

But if I don’t, I’ll never find him, never join him.
And so with gravel crunching beneath me,

I soar.

It like learning to grow a turtleneck

I’m sitting in my living room
With my leg curled up underneath
me on the big comfy chair.

My friend Caitlin is laughing her
Laugh, bubbling and flowing out all
Over the carpet.

Our Friends keep saying funny things.

My boyfriend Ben is sitting on the floor,
Trying earnestly to explain probability
While I make funny faces at him.

How you doin’?

It’s pretty much impossible
To concentrate on studying
Autobiographies about old dead guys when
Ross, Rachel, Monica, Chandler, Phoebe and Joey
Keep making me laugh.

-Sarah Baughman

Ice Sestina

It’s cold.
But I can’t wear my gloves while I tie my skates
My knee’s bang together as I stand up. Weak
Ankles, straining to balance on the blades.
I can feel the heaters above me, a breeze
That pushes me forward; through the door, onto the ice.

I forget this feeling of freedom on the ice
After I go home, legs burning, toes cold.
I close my eyes and push forward on my skates
Ignoring reality, the pressure that makes me weak
Focus on the sound, ice on blade
Faster yet, my worries fly away in the breeze.

Do they feel this breeze?
As they, stick in hand, slice across the ice
Do they feel the cold?
Do they feel freedom on skates
Too? Or is that weak?
Stick, puck, net, blade.

What about her? On the toe of the blade?
Spinning so fast, the crown can feel the breeze.
Jumps, twirls, a spray of ice.
Her only expression: one of cold
Concentration. Her legs are a continuation of her skates
A part of her. Without them, she’s weak.
Alone here, I’m not weak.
A strange place to meet him, on blades
And still alone. Yet I feel him in the breeze
As I circle the ice.
A strange way to connect, but he meets me in the cold,
Gliding with me, my God finds me on skates.

I can forget life when I’m on skates.
When everything’s gone, he strengthens the weak.
He steadies me, when I’m balanced on one blade.
When I wobble and sway in the breeze.
He melts away my protective ice,
Warms my hands in his, chases away the cold.

A Reason- Billy Collins Poem

It keeps hounding me in my mind.
That voice that sounds eerily like my mother
With a bit more judgment thrown in
For good measure.

It thrives on guilt,
Poking like a sliver stuck in your sock
At that soft part of me
That I already have doubts about.
It gets to me.

Cleaning
Baking
Drinking
All at once.
I’m doing all I can to ignore her.

Ooops, I mean it.

There’s a reason I don’t keep a gun in the house.

Fireworks

1. He looks down at his hands, feet, himself
Inadequate in his own eyes. But she
Is perfect to him. Pure, like a nun
But without the lifetime commitment.
Fireworks burst behind him. She smiles.
He watches her, wishing, hoping, wanting
But holding back. Waiting. Sparklers burst
Around them, framing her in a heavenly glow.

2. She looks down at her hands, entwined
With his. Resting on the cold metal of
Her folding chair. The air in the gymnasium
Is heavy, warm, stifling from the crowd.
Music begins and she glances behind
Searching for him, his from is so familiar
Almost identical to the man next to her.
Twenty years ago, in front of the fireworks.

Dangerous, Treacherous, Hazardous You

I know how your hands feel
intertwined in my hair or
pressed against my back or
clutched between mine.

I know how your lips feel
pressed against my cheek or
nibbling on my ear or
Moving slowly against mine.

Stop.
I sit up and move away.
Away from the warmth
of you.

Stop
those hazardous lips
treacherous arms.
Dangerous you.

-SarahBaughman

Stories

“when I say remember
Your eyes reflect, give back.”
You ask me to tell you a story,
As your fingers make dizzying trails
Across the back of my neck,
Sending shivers down my back that
Distract me.
A story? I ask. About what?
You don’t know. Make one up.
So I start.
I tell you there once was a girl,
I start this way because I am a girl
And after all, I should tell you a story
About what I know.
So this girl, I say,
Has a car.
A car? You ask.
Yes. Shut up. I reply.
You are always interrupting my stories.
You remain quiet and your fingers are still
Distracting me.
She has a car. I say.
And she’s driving her car at night.
At night? You ask.
I sit up from the spooning position
We were in.
We like to spoon.
It makes us feel closer
Because we fit together so well.
Do you want a story? I ask.
You wrap your arms around me.
A hug.
I just want to hear you talk.
You whisper.
I’m distracted.
You always do this.
I stare at you and
Your eyes are sparking
With concealed mirth.
I’ve never finished a story
You’ve asked me to tell.

Family Poem

When I think of Mom

It’s Wal-Mart.
Take a left after entering the store
Right back to the Christmas isle.
All those plastic trees
Balanced precariously
On display for all to see.
To buy.
You took a rubber lizard
And tied the tail
To a random tree branch.
“decorations!” you claim.
It’s random. It’s bizarre.
It makes me laugh every time
I remember it.
and
Dad would be
So embarrassed.

August, 2009 Sioux Falls, SD

We were in the middle
Of hundreds of
Adolescence, dripping
In the August sun.
My little sister and I.

The lead singer,
With his football pads
And hulk gloves,
Spat out lyrics
About his momma and
Dancing on cardboard.
We knew every word.

A group of short,
Annoyingly giggly,
Girls stared at us.
As we two white
Girls from Iowa
Rapped along.

Why Won't You Just Go Away?

foot slips back
as I step forward
her frigid breath burns
my open eyes
blink.blink.blink
a flowing response freezes.
absent is the warm deluge
that caresses, nurtures, and colors
the world.
in it's place
her solid tears cling transparent
to bend, bruise and break
branches.
it's cruel, callous, uncouth
the way she never leaves
continuing on
in her constant torrent
of frozen vapor.

RR- Simile and Metaphor, Writing and Knowing, The Music of the Line

RR- Simile and Metaphor
“If such a world were possible, It would be a severely impoverished one.” Pg. 94
“But in surprising ones that reveal new connections or cast a different angle of light on an idea or experience.” Pg. 94
“Good metaphors and similes make connections that deepen, expand and energize; they stimulate the imagination.” Pg. 94
“but now it’s a simile that, if it turns up in your poem, should be sent to the Toxic Language Dump- a place we’ve invented for all those expressions that are deadly for the art.” Pg. 95
“Once you lose someone it is never exactly
The same person who comes back.” Pg. 96
RR- Writing and Knowing
“We’ve been told again and again to write about what we know, but we don’t trust that advice.” Pg. 19
“This is were we begin, by looking over our own shoulders, down our own arms, into our own hands at what we are holding, what we know.” Pg.21
“Good writing works from the simple premise: your experience is not yours alone, but in some sense a metaphor for everyone’s.” Pg. 21
“But our daily experience s, our dreams and loves and passionate convictions about the world, won’t be important to others- to potential readers of our poems- unless we’re able to transform the raw material of our experiences into language that reaches beyond the self-involvement of that person standing at the window…” Pg. 21
“If it worked for Whitman and Dickinson, for Williams and Forche and Dove, it can work for you.” Pg. 24
RR- The Music of the Line
“There are no real rules for line breaks.” Pg. 105
“At first you’ll feel very much at sea, but gradually, by experimenting and listening, and by noticing how lines works for other writers, you’ll begin to gain a sense of control.” Pg. 105
“Nothing storms out of these perfectly balanced lines.” Pg. 109
“These and other line breaks cut across the normal flow of sentences and are disorienting at times, mimicking and recreating the powerful emotions the writer wishes to convey.” Pg. 111
“The poem is an outpouring that allows the reader no opportunity to stop and consider.” Pg 111

Eminence

Standing on the edge of this cliff. Timid.
Tremulous waters below, lapping at the stone.

My quaking feet knock pebbles in the foaming
fingers that reach up, trying to grasp at my ankles.

He is down there. He’s asking me to jump,
To collapse into his unyielding, rock steady grip.

I shuffle back from the precipice, the boundary, the brink.
Unsure of his dependability, his stability.

If I jump, I may stumble I may crash. I may die.
Or I might just miss his arms completely.

But if I don’t, I’ll never find him, never join him.
And so with gravel crunching underneath me,

I soar.

RR-Images

“We are all haunted by images, both light and dark.”
‘Magic. That’s what an image should do, produce a bit of magic, a reality so real it is ‘like being alive twice’’’
“ Poets need to keep all five senses- and possibly a few more- on continual alert, ready to translate the world through their bodies, to reinvent it in language.”
“Miles away and years later, someone-a reader- closes her eyes and experiences it.”
“images are the rendering of your bodily experience in the world; without them, your poems are going to risk being vague and imprecise, and they will fail to convey much to a reader.”

Phasmids

My pen has sprouted legs and is now prancing across the page
Like it’s an insect, the ones that look like twigs.
It’s writing those things from my head, the ones I’ve been unable to construct words for.
I can’t make it stop.

You are watching it, spilling my brains across the page in inky spatters .
I see you look at it, and then at me
And as you run towards the door
Away from me
I close my eyes and imagine you running towards me.
Was it the pen? or
Was it something I said?

Misstep

Misstep

Racing to get ready for class
distracted by
Three onyx footprints
Dancing across the ivory
White of my foot

I pull on my socks
Covering the inky addition
Tying my black chucks
I race into the blinding January sun
Slipping on ice,
I curse their lack of traction.