Aerobics Class

To-day we have aerobics class. Yesterday,

We had hardcore spinning. And to-morrow morning,

We shall have what to do after working out. But to-day,

To-day we have aerobics class. The glazed donuts

Glisten like rays of sun hitting the surface of the ocean,

          And to-day we have aerobics class.

This is the fruits and vegetables isle. And this

Is the whole-wheat section, whose use you will see,

When you step onto the scales. And this is the dairy fridge,

Which in your case you are not allowed in. Chocolate and chips

Hold in the sweets section their delicious, tempting gestures,

           Which in our case we are not allowed in.

This is the clasp of the sports bra, which is always released

With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me

See anyone using this finger before class is up. You can do this workout quite easy

If you have any strength in your body. The bosoms

Are fragile and meant to be resting on the sofa, but we can never let anyone see

          Any of us using our finger.

And these you can see are the low fat alternatives. The purpose of this

Is to trick your minds, as you see. We can slide it

Down our throats without much guilt: we call this

Easing the Diet. And down our throats

Goes the unhealthy binge that the sweeteners make us crave:

           They call it easing the Diet.

They call it easing the Diet: It is perfectly easy

If you have any strength in your body: like the low fat alternatives,

And the sports bra, and the whole-wheat products, and the fruits and vegetables,

Which in our case we have not got; and the fat on our bodies

Strapped in tight sportswear and the unhealthy binge goes down our throats,
           For to-day we have aerobics class.

A Trip to Boston

We woke up at sunset and the sky was a brave red on the last day of our journey. It had been 10 days since I woke up and thought “Fuck I’m in my twenties, and I still have no idea where my life is going,” so we, Louise and Eva, immediately bought two plane tickets to Boston, and here we were. A crow flew past our hotel window, and we reckoned that was a good sign. Eva was really historically and politically interested, and she desperately wanted to squeeze in a visit at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, so we went there after breakfast. Unfortunately, some of the exhibits were being renewed, so they had closed off sections of the museum and signposted them “Do not enter.” Luckily, we were able to see the most interesting thing at the museum which was the Space Race exhibit focused on Project Mercury. We went to Walmart to buy Swiss Miss, a delicious brand of cocoa we wanted to bring back home. Walmart truly is an interesting place, you can buy everything from a drilling machine to food items to even a .44 magnum.

We went to have the last supper at the Pelican Restaurant where we had shallot and pearl onion soup for appetizer and pigeon with russian banana potatoes and gravy for the main course. Over dinner we discussed our plans for the evening. “We have to go to the Drunken Flamingo when it opens,” I said. “Yes, but I need to remember my watch. Last time we went out we totally lost track of time,” Eva exclaimed. We immediately got up and I must have missed the sign on the floor saying “Caution Wet Floor”, because I slipped and hammered my knee into the sharp edge of a table, creating a deep cut in my leg. It was so bad that the restaurant called an ambulance for me, and when it came, we left through the emergency exit. I was a bit panicked because they do not have free hospital care here, but luckily I had travel insurance. We got to the hospital where I was checked by a German doctor named Dr. Oetker, who told me the cut looked like it had been made with a bubble level. While I was being examined, Eva went out to explore the hospital. She came up to an interesting looking ward and decided to enter, and in there a nurse and patient were having a conversation. “How are you? Recovering?” “Yea, I’m not contagious anymore.” Suddenly, someone tapped Eva on the shoulder asking her to leave because it was for authorised personnel only.

Although our last day was very eventful, I was happy to go home but I wondered if we had got what we came for and looked Eva in the eyes and we were both asking ourselves “Are we there yet?”

Unoriginality

How does one create unoriginality?

It’s not about thinking a thought that’s never been thought.

Does it perhaps come from everyday life’s banality?

Alas, that is most likely not where it must be sought.

Being uncreative, turns out, is quite the task:

Even in plagiarizing, selections must be made.

The Uncreative unintentionally the author tries to mask,

The point of unoriginality thus begins to fade.

Shakespeare wrote of love

And so did millions of others before him;

Standing on the shoulders of giants,

The cup of originality is full to the brim.

Since the dawn of time,

People have borrowed from each other;

Intertextuality, inspiration, rhyme,

Mixing up texts from one another.

Original words of creativity once poured from its first reality
And even so it’s still almost impossible to express unoriginality.

Based on: The Chronicle of Higher Education: Kenneth Goldsmith's "Uncreative Writing"

A Poem about Identity

Function: Poet

Notion: Identity

Identity is truly an abstract notion,

Asking the question of “who am I?” 

From the way we dress to our showing of emotion;

These are some things to distinguish us all by.

Identity is hard to get a grip on, 

Not easy to understand and even less to explain.

You can ponder on it from dusk till dawn 

And still come to the conclusion that such effort is in vain.

Identity can be a lot of things:

Numerical, gender related, and philosophical, too.

It all depends on the definition which to your mind springs,

I may think very differently of it compared to you.

Identity is not about personality – or is it? 

Personal identity is said to persist through time and space,

But in order to remain the same person, your personality must surely fit

What was always your identity in the first place.

Identity is indeed an abstract notion,

It keeps asking the question of “who am I?”

Although intangible, it’s always in motion

And persists until the day we die. 

Reflection: 

I chose to take on the author function of the poet, which allowed me to compose a poem with a rhyme scheme. If I were to write about the abstract notion of identity using the author function of the writer or novelist, I would have been able to flesh it out a lot more and perhaps create more of an essay-like outpour of thoughts, but it would not have the structure of the poem, nor the rhyme. Seeing as poetry uses a lot less words than novels, the meaning has to be rather concise and boiled down in poetry. A discussion of an abstract notion such as identity would also have been possible to conduct through something like dialogue in a novel, for instance, whereas that is not as easily achievable in a poem.

His Last Duchess

When I first met him, I found him to be quite charming, in his own odd way. I knew he was much older than me, but I understood that I had to fulfil my duties to my family and accept his marriage proposal. In the beginning, I thought it was going to work out just fine as he was always very attentive towards me, always making sure I was looked after and taken care of. But in a matter of weeks, attention turned into obsession. 
     He was always watching me, wherever I went and whatever I did. One time, a young servant brought me a bowl of cherries on the terrace, and as I thanked the boy for the gesture and smiled at him in appreciation, I noticed out of the corner of my eye my husband peeking at me through the kitchen window, his eyes burning with jealousy. Maybe I was just overthinking things, but he even seemed to be jealous of the mule I used to ride around the garden. He would throw terrible fits of anger, and sometimes he would turn to violence. I started to fear him as he kept accusing me of smiling at other men too sweetly and punishing me for it. Therefore, I isolated myself in an attempt to avoid all contact with the male kind as that seemed to be what upset him most. For months I lived in complete isolation and tried to keep myself entertained with painting, but one day he burst into the studio and tore the canvas apart. Henceforth I stopped painting.

     We had separate bedrooms, and I noticed that he would lock the door to my room from the outside at night. Perhaps he was afraid that I would sneak out to see other men. I hardly ever got any sleep, as I was afraid of what he might do to me if I did not keep my wits about me. On one particularly starry night, I was staring blankly at the ceiling as I did most nights, and my heart suddenly skipped a beat as I heard the key turn in the lock. I instinctively closed my eyes and pulled up the covers, pretending to be asleep. There was a sound of footsteps quickly approaching my bed, every muscle in my body tensed in preparation for what was to come, and then there was silence. Never in my life had I felt so scared. The very second I opened my eyes, I felt a sharp pain in my chest and a wet, warm liquid soaking through my night gown. The very last thing I saw before everything went dark was his face twisted with madness and eyes green with jealousy.

     Now, I roam the halls I used to walk, through walls and floors I move with ease, and he can no longer do me any harm. He had a painting of me hung in one of his private chambers, behind a curtain. There are other paintings in that chamber. I have seen his new duchess. She looks beautiful. And terrified.

She is Damn Hot

I am in love with a girl. She is damn hot, more so than the sun. And thanks to me she will not die, for I wrote this piece of text in which she will live on. Yay me! 

On Being Human

Sitting on the bed of my childhood bedroom,

A thought struck me like lightning

I don’t know if this thought had descended from the full moon

Alas, it was a bit frightening:

‘One day, everyone I love will surely perish’

It is the one thing we all know to be true

It reminded me that the time I have with them I must cherish

And make sure that I don’t leave them without a clue

That I love them and will miss them, there can be no doubt

I will tell them as often as I can

But accepting death and grief, how does one deal with this?
Oh, how I long for instructions on being human