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Zara Bosman Poem
Between the curtains
I stand, my hands together
Brown like a clay dove
A messenger they
Hold my letter to you written
In scratchy black ink
Trostsky. These flowers
Piled into a sleepy mound
Pink, yellow and peach
These flowers are like
Our love, no longer alive
But no less lovely
I blossomed beneath
your steady blue gaze searching
for an answer to
For an answer to
lifes many big questions I
hope you've found answers
This is our farewll
The velvet curtain closes
Love. Always. Frida.
* Haiku based on "Between the curtains", a painting by Frida Khalo
Copyright © Zara Bosman | Year Posted 2013
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Zara Bosman Poem
I want you to know
that despite your self-conscious pretension
your affected accent
your compulsive cynicism
despite your inability to listen
or sit still
or be quiet
for longer than a minute
despite that you can never lose an argument
despite that you slept with someone else
are thirty this year
despite your hair
I want you to know
that despite that you make me say things I don't mean
and pretend to enjoy things I don't like
despite that you think
I'm a alcoholic
because I'll have more than one drink at a party
despite that you make me nervous so I can't think
and make stupid spelling errors when I write to you
that you point out later on
I want you to know
that despite that I can only
speak about you bitterly to friend after friend
despite that I still get an unhealthy thrill
out of listing all your worst traits again and again
despite that you make me feel
repetitive, mean-spirited, combative,
cynical, fraudulent, judged
despite that you make me
want to hold you down
and put my hands over your mouth
so you'll shut up
I still love you (in a certain way)
despite myself.
Copyright © Zara Bosman | Year Posted 2011
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Zara Bosman Poem
Something a politics professor once said
has been crashing round and round my head.
He said: "Zara. You could convince white
that it was black and black that it was white instead.
It's also been said that I struggle with reality -
that black-white; wrong-right polarity -
because I see white as blacker and black as whiter
right as wronger and wrong as righter.
So I am become a writer -
rather than a politician -
because any rhetorician
has plenty proof
that politicians tell the truth to lie
while writers lie to tell the truth.
Copyright © Zara Bosman | Year Posted 2011
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Zara Bosman Poem
Inside out
like a backward bent umbrella,
dusty grey and textured in my slip-on dress
I hear
piles of books. Musty and scuffed. Lining her passageway. It moves me.
This is what I’m trying to say:
Thank you for yesterday. And the day before that. And all the days before that since we first became friends all those years ago.
This is what I’m trying to say:
With a strap running through the middle of my foot. Pleated like pine cone petals,
I hear
the most quiet place I know is underneath the water in a mountain pool.
This is what I’m trying to say:
Outside in.
Thank you for tomorrow. And the day before that. And all the days before that since we first became friends all those years ago.
Copyright © Zara Bosman | Year Posted 2011
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