*the text referenced here is Roland Barthes' Mourning Diary.
these texts are an archive of my life in the San Francisco Bay Area from march 2007 - march 2015. it stands as a record of close to a decade of my life, charting the struggles i faced as an artist, daughter, and lover. messy and chaotic at times, eloquent and poetic at others, these texts are an index i am proud of. it was here in this electric box that i learned how to be honest about my experiences and the person i needed to become. it was here that i first learned the truism that words make the world and how to trust such a beautiful, rife, hard fact.
Showing posts with label daughterhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label daughterhood. Show all posts
Apr 12, 2011
Oct 7, 2010
Jan 14, 2010
Jan 5, 2010
Jan 3, 2010
May 19, 2009
"new" poem...
been in the birthing process for months with this one. i'm not sure if she's done. could be premature... still too early to tell. but putting these little babies out in to the world, for however scary it is, seems to do them - and me - a bit of good. i am still learning. i've got a long way to go. critique is always welcome. an afternoon of re-arranging is emminent.
renewing
she crouches at the reddening
hinge of mama's hope chest, shoving
out the unwanted: hated
sunday dresses.
disdain at the ruffle-
my other.
that girl.
that daughter. that
black.
she points and i reach.
skirts she'll not finger
silks she'll not admire-
i only ever wanted to be pleasing.
lace
ripped and reeling
i clean
down to the white
beyond bone and passed
the collected fat, i shove
myself
tight inside
the Goodwill bag.
she points and i pull
a new braid hiding
this girl.
this non-daughter.
and blackless.
possibly
bitch of no father.
-angela simione, 2009
renewing
she crouches at the reddening
hinge of mama's hope chest, shoving
out the unwanted: hated
sunday dresses.
disdain at the ruffle-
my other.
that girl.
that daughter. that
black.
she points and i reach.
skirts she'll not finger
silks she'll not admire-
i only ever wanted to be pleasing.
lace
ripped and reeling
i clean
down to the white
beyond bone and passed
the collected fat, i shove
myself
tight inside
the Goodwill bag.
she points and i pull
a new braid hiding
this girl.
this non-daughter.
and blackless.
possibly
bitch of no father.
-angela simione, 2009
Labels:
angela simione,
artist,
daughterhood,
identity,
new poem,
poetry,
recovery
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