I wrote a poem

Here it is:

Somehow Brittle

Like an old china cup, stained,

thin from use (though I am far from thin) and chipped

On the edge of a counter, poised.

The slightest of bulls,

      those dark eyes, that hot breath

and laughing air fills me, folds



The hairline crack caused by the shaking, pale, and delicate

hand of a Countess,

on a cool November night

      in 1847

as she watched, with dry and grey eyes

the creation of a deathmask

      Sarah’d been only four, pretty blond ringlets

for the fifth of her children and the third to die young

when she set down the cup

hard (too hard)

becomes all of me as I kiss the floor

in a thousand pieces

and think once of you.

On this day..

3 thoughts on “I wrote a poem

  1. Whenever Harlan Ellison is asked where he get’s his ideas from, he always answers, “Schenectady.”


    Basically, I was feeling emotionally brittle, and on the bus to school followed that feeling with words (writing on my iPhone) and do something more interesting than “i feel brittle” – when the tea cup idea came to me, I got interested in the cup itself, thus the Countess tangent.

    But here’s the thing about me as a writer, while I can see the Countess’ eyes and hands quite clearly, I couldn’t describe the appearance of the teacup (though I could imagine the weight and texture and feel of it).

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