Warm mug of phantom poetry: episode 14, feat Jen Fagala, illness part 2
20m
·
Warm Mug of Phantom Poetry
·
Here is Jen Fagala reading it's wild geese by Mary oliver You do not have to be good.You do not have to walk on your kneesfor a hundred miles through the desert repenting.You only have to let the soft animal of your bodylove what it loves.Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.Meanwhile the world goes on.Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rainare moving across the landscapes,over the prairies and the deep trees,the mountains and the rivers.Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,are heading home again.Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,the world offers itself to your imagination,calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -over and over announcing your placein the family of things. What disociating feels like Sometimes I forget I'm writing While I'm actaully writing It's like I'm just watching myself writing Like I'm focussed on it but zoned out while doing it It's like riding a bicycle and looking up at the sky and you forget your pedaling and feel like you're just walking while watching looking up at the clouds, I guess it's odd to use that metaphor because I still don't know how to ride a bike, some would say this means writing is fluid to me comes naturally I can do it in my sleep, but I think it's cause my mind drift, its like I'm on another planet but I don't know how I got there maybe it's a moon because I can feel the gravitational pull of another planet pulling me down and I can do nothing about it I'm from another planet I feel like I'm watching everything it's a completely different planet then the first two mentioned but there I am watching this moon be pulled by another planet through a telescope and I am Bound by telescope unable to Move It from that position of watching and yet I even look through a telescope in years so how can I use a metaphor about telescope when I don't even know how to use one. Sometimes while doing something I feel like I'm not the person doing it, like I'm not really there, it's like being trapped in a cloud which is partially gas, but distracted you because it's fluffy and light, and as it floats away with you in it you see that it's hard to capture it hard to pull it down so you lay in the sky stuck to the cloud, watching from above the life that is happening with someone who is you but doesn't feel like you. I've never touched a cloud never felt a cloud I just know how to describe them but maybe they aren't like that at all, maybe disociate is something indescribable like the cloud. I disociation, tiptoe away from reality and begin to tell someone else story, I tell of the lives of others that effected me, but not my own story, my mind wanders away from the page and I think about the people who die in winter i wonder how do you dig a grave in the cold frozen soil beneath the fresh snow of the morning Ground. I should not be thinking about death while breathing life into these words while giving birth to a poem but I am, maybe we look up at the sky, not because we see the beauty but draw our eyes away from falling off the flipped over bike. Vaccination for anxiety: after plath By N. J. Saroff 2018 The moans of those lost never wanting to be found are left to their own devices they shake the building with their vibrations, the walls inhale their cries of pain, the paint chips off and sticks to the hollow grave yard beds they sleep in. In the middle of the night doctor depression walks in the door squeaking open, I do not wake to the sound of his presence. His sharp needle stabs me in the brain, injecting me with a sadness serum, I do not flinch, I have come to expect this ritual, I only exhale fog into the cold empty night of darkness. The white of the room is stained yellow by age, the sheets once grey have a brownish tint to them now, the nervous nurse closes the window, chaining the balcony to stop the flyers. The rainy winds flood the lake, we drown ourselves in bath tubs, our burial homes swept away by the storm. --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app
The episode Warm mug of phantom poetry: episode 14, feat Jen Fagala, illness part 2 from the podcast Warm Mug of Phantom Poetry has a duration of
20:16. It was first published
More episodes from Warm Mug of Phantom Poetry
Warm mug of phantom poetry is back
That all of you want to come join the podcast and drink tea and read poetry with me reach out and dm me at n.j.saroff --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app
Episode 20 revisiting warm mug of phantom poetry
This episodes talks about some topics such as homophobic gender dysphoria and suicide. Maybe skip about 13 minutes when i bring up those content warning. I have changed my name to Nichémat and have update my pronouns to they he. Going to try to make this podcast more monthly than weekly but maybe we'll get some extra episodes I'll also be publishing scripts of episodes upon requests as i don't have enough characters to print it in my description. If you'd like to make. Donation reach out to my insta n.j.saroff to keep this podcast going. Lots of warmth and love to all of you enjoy a cup of tea and some poetry with me --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app
Warm mug of phantom poetry: episode 18: gender and identity
Welcome to episode 18 of njs warm mug of phantom poetry if you new the podcast I'm NJ Saroff a Also known as the phantom poet on SoundCloud This podcast best enjoyed a cup of tea and today's tea is Today's poems are what someone would put on my tombstone, letters to your Shadow, where wind would take me and human And the poem of the week is there is no greater crime than leaving by Bertolt brecht What someone else would put on your tombstone Here lies Natalie my full name would be printed on my tombstone I would not be able to make a correction or fix any of the gendered words used on to it it would say she lies here or she lived a good life She was a writer she was everything at the same time she was nothing she wanted to be she was a daughter, she was an actress, she was absolutely nothing she she she I was not a she when I died I want to be the he, the they, I want people to respect the gender that I I found myself in I want the name NJ printed on my stone I know that's a lot to ask for I know that Natalie is the name they wanted I know that Natalie has meaning but I don't connect with Natalie it's like we're two different people in the room one is called NJ, the other called Natalie, NJ is demiboy or non-binary Natalie is girl we aren't friends we would walk by each other in the hallway and ignore the other We do know that the other exists and that some people prefer one over the other and that some wish that one would just go away and die To die nameless to disappear and not bother any more to correct people on pronouns or names or the gender identity How you say daughter instead of child mother instead of parent gurl instead of pal sometimes I wish I was nameless formless non existent then they would have nothing to get wrong But I exist so please just listen before you put me in the ground and move on Letter to your shadow Dear shadow Shall I call you my dark twin Surely you are not evil You are simply a reflection You take on my form, my outline Magnify and shrink it You desire the light though you aren't seen in the night You are my longest and oldest friend every time I've been alone not in darkness but in the light that shines you have found me and in a way almost held me you do not speak But maybe you do not need to You do listen better than I do I've always wondered what's it like on the other side for you to always follow to never go your own to create their outline instead of your own I wonder if you miss me the way I miss you when it is too dark or when I am under shade I wonder if you think of me in those times when I am away I wonder if you wait for the light wait for the sun, smile at its arrival or if you don't want to be seen you want to hide if you want to remain invisible dearest Shadow you are my oldest and longest friend You have seen me through everything You know all my secrets I don't know if you wanted to but you do and now forever it will be just us two I have vivid dreams my thoughts paint images of days and weeks that stretch on in 2 years my memories I fall asleep the colorful visions of old times I called myself an artist yet I seem to only produce my best work in my head never fully able to put it out on the paper with brush or pen a dream of my masterpiece the words flowing so quickly the brush not shaking in my hand I tremble at the thought of making something beautiful it's not that I don't think I'm beautiful I do think I'm beautiful but there's something mystical about art shape its words how do we humans feel worthy enough to make it why do we feel the need to capture all the moments around us I call myself a writer I call myself an artist call myself a playwright I call myself a poet I call myself human and I think that's the only phrase that best describes me Where I'd like the wind to take me Back to the days of my youth Back to when I was closeted Back to when I claimed silence to be my one true friend Back to dating simply so I could --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app
Warm mug of phantom poetry: episode 17: end of april
Welcome to episode 17 of NJ warm mug of phantom poetry I'm NJ Saroff also known as the phantom poet on SoundCloud This podcast is best enjoyed with a cup of tea and today's tea is Today's poems are a poem for destructo, a poem to mousetrap, to Georgia and sunflowers by van Gogh and the poem of the week verses 1, 20, 21, and 51 from song of myself by Walt Whitman To Georgia O'Keefe Bathed in colors are the roaring flowers springing to the curves of life growing out of the page blossoming into magnificent shapes, paint droplets circling and bubbling around the edges A flower, a forest, It could be anything and everything What do you find in the painting Poem for mousetrap I'm a glutton for food Hearing my bowl get filled puts me in the mood I love play I lay on humans and make them stay give me attention all through the day When I see a mouse I don't just pounce I stalk and wait till it's the perfect date to grab it up and eat it up And say oh yum cause I'm a cat that likes to have fun My fur is black like the night I'm always ready to cheer my owners up just right I jump onto there thighs when they want to cry and I purr till their filled with delight I love to sit on laps My name is mousetrap Poem for sunflower Van Gogh Van Gogh was not just a man of madness His Happiest picture was maybe also his saddest Sunflowers spark joy Yet this painting seems coy They sit in a vase drooping down Missing the dirt missing the ground Losing their petals Waiting for the water to settle Where did the sky go The flowers do not know They just hold their blooms Filling the air with sweet perfumes A poem to Destructo In the box is where I'll stay I do not want to come out and play I want to lay in my box Wait for lovely to pet me in the box Sometimes I do like to climb My fur is nice and fluffy All the humans think it's so lovely And lick my fur to unwind If I see a mouse I get ready to pounce I always miss but my owner still gives me a kiss They love me even when telling me no My name is Destructo The final poem for this week is song of myself by Walt whitman Walt Whitman was an American poet, essayist, and journalist. Bornin May 1819, he was a humanist, who was a part of the transition between transcendentalism and realism, incorporating both views in his works. Whitman is among the most influential poets in the American canon, often called the father of free verse. He Died in March of 1892 Song of Myself (1892 version) BY WALT WHITMAN 1, 20, 21,and 51 I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app
Warm mug of phantom poetry episode 16: poetry month part 1
What I miss I dreamed of you last night the way you used to be, the way you felt, the way you seemed, on the outside, never who you really were, on the inside, you are so much different in my dream, almost like, how you used to be, at the same, time better than who you ever were, I dreamed I could pick you apart, and then put the pieces back together, and we could start over, but we don't even talk anymore, we don't even see each other, I don't even know if you're alive or not, I hope you're okay, I hope you're good, but at the same time I wish I didn't care, I wish I didn't still think about you, I wished, that when we stopped conversations, that my life stopped having you in it, in my head, but it didn't, I didn't, I never stopped, I think what sucks is that the world keeps spinning, and I'm spinning in an entirely different direction than the earth, and I get dizzy easily, from all the thoughts clustering in my head, I don't know how to stop them, I obsess over them, you used to silence them, with the simplicity that was you, I think that's what I miss most, not you persay, but the silence you gave to me, the quiet, I know you weren't good for me, and I know I wasn't good for you, I know the two of us together were thid toxic Force, we just drove each other crazy, but I do miss you I know you don't care about I know you won't even see this, I know you don't miss me. But I still miss the idea of you and I don't know what to do April 14 . For these next 2 poem the prompt I chose to do came from 2 separate final sentances the first comes from the April edition of poetry magazine the part The part that makes me want to close my ears and run away and buy unsettling me so profoundly convinces me of her Divinity her demand that I recognize in myself the humanity she sees and she summons us to see as her Offspring and her dwelling place as love is revealed Love There's a part that wants us to close our ears and run away run so far that we will not know how to return back, We will forget who we are We will forget where we came from And we will never return and we think this is all well and good until we miss her until we miss the world until we miss all that came before us all that once existed And she in her beauty and divinity, in all her grace and pleasure She will call to us She'll so profoundly convince us to recognize ourselves and the humanity she sees so present in us. She summons us to see, as her Offspring, and her dwelling place, the love slowly being revealed that we tried to hide away from. She will love, it is all she knows how to do, she will love us even when we curse the name of love, She will love us even when we cannot love ourselves, She will hold us when there is no one to hold us, She the grace and beauty this invisible force We do not see her But she is there And Sometimes we do not want her But she is there from afar she is lonely And she only craves to make us happy To hurt or the harm was never Love's intension, Though we may believe it to be, We want to close off We want to run away we want to forget her beauty and her grace her pleasures that she gives to us We want to see no more of her and forget ourselves Love is in her dwelling place She continues to call, continues to reach out, continues to wait She has not given up on us So we can not give up on love. The Other quote is from Circe by Madeline miller the final sentance of that book was I lift the brimming bowl to my lips and drink Esteem I lift the brimming bowl to my lips and drink, I inhale with each sip. I take every last drop in. Then I lower the bowl and smile. For so long I was afraid to even hold this bowl To even look at it Now it's in my hands Now it's empty I have done what I thought I'd never do. I have taken a sip. lt has felt wonderous, beautiful, I breathe in Finally, A sigh of relief, Of thanks, I didn't think I was worthy of taking the sip Of drinking in the whole bowl --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app