Pick-a-Poem: “Scrapbook”

Hello, blog readers! I hope that you’re all doing well this week. Now that Wednesday has rolled around again, it’s time to feature a new poem. These poems all come to us from Poetry Daily, which is a great website where you can discover new poetry. This week we’re featuring Scrapbook by Kim Addonizio.

According to her bio on her own website, Kim Addonizio has written several books, the most recent of which are Lucifer at the Starlite (a finalist for the Poets Prize) and Ordinary Genius: A Guide for the Poet Within, a nonfiction book. She has also written novels, including Jimmy & Rita, Little Beauties, and My Dreams Out in the Street. Her latest collection, My Black Angel: Blues Poems and Portraits, is available now. She has two NEA fellowships and Pushcart Prizes for both poetry and essay.

Scrapbook by Kim Addonizio

This is me, depressed out of my mind,
frailing the banjo, spilling red wine

on the white
king-sized

luckily-hotel’s-and-not-my-
goose down comforter, this is me

walking and waxing nostalgic through the girlish shadows
of tall palm trees, the déjà vus

flying through the scene
suddenly, like those three

unnameable and therefore beautiful white birds.
This is me as a slowly-tearing-itself-apart cloud

and marveling
at a fire palely and flamily

emerging from a bowl, wavering
up through stones of cobalt glass. The air

wavers back. This is me in love
with the beauty of blue glass in flames, this is me on drugs

prescribed by my doctor
as I try once more

to sneak into night’s closely guarded city,
my hollow horse ready

to wreak my demons and Blue Morphos
on the citizens of my sleep. I am most

myself when flashing rapidly
my iridescent wings, drinking

the juice of fallen fruit. Then again
look for me under your bed

where the ugly premodern vampires
still hide. The undead and I are lying

in wait. We are very interested in you
though this is still me. We are unstable and true.

We believe in the one-ton rose
and the displaced toilet equally. Our blues

assume you understand
not much, and try to be alive, just as we do,

and that it may be helpful to hold the hand
of someone as lost as you.

I hope you enjoyed this week’s featured poem! For similar posts, click here.

— Jet Fuel Blog Editor, Mary Egan