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[emryse]

"WHILE IT'S STILL ALLOWED" | emryse

[emryse]

An excerpt from my poem, "THE JOKE."

[emryse]

Happy Mother’s Day, I Am Not Dead Yet | emryse

I have been writing this poem for three years straight

each time concluding that I Will Not Kill Myself Today.

It feels important to say that every time, to give each

subsequent Today to someone as some kind of gift.

There is a responsibility to tell this story with hope.

There is a responsibility to not leave my mother

daughterless on the day that names that bond.

No relationship exists as a lonely point———————

it all must be relative. So while a daughter can become

motherless—inherently, she has already been born—

does a mother simply cease to be, when her daughter

decides the same? I am so tired of writing about death,

I should write a Mother’s Day card, every day, instead.

My mother has told me that my poems make her want

to slit her wrists. Then, she calls me from the sculpture

park in Oslo, says she doesn't know of any artists that

didn’t struggle, that’s always kinda been what it’s about

right? They have pain and trauma and they laser focus it

into art, into their art, because that’s how art is created.

It certainly doesn’t come from happiness, right?

[emryse]

A Ten-Story Tower | emryse

[emryse]

All of a sudden it's been five years since I updated this site; let's see if we can fix that.

[emryse]

Rough Seas near Lobster Point, 1903, Robert Henri

[emryse]

On April Fool’s Day, my Planned Parenthood // provider is named Honey and calls me darlin’. // She also says we should probably do a pap // smear; neither of us tries to crack the joke. // \\ After I’ve already torn the paper smock (twice) // and the examination table’s paper placemat and // I’m staring at the tropical beach poster tacked // to the ceiling appropriately akimbo, I think of my // \\ partner’s own appointment the Saturday before: // when his provider says, let’s take a look, I start // to leave the room to let him change, but he only // stands and unzips his jeans. From behind, he’s // \\ unaffected; his exposure is contained to what // he can hold in his hands, and I feel the rage and // jealousy and shame and injustice move through // me like the breeze over my legs under this paper. // \\ Sometimes, he marvels that I don’t have more // sex: that any woman can say, who wants to fuck? // in any room and there will always be takers. But // that’s the point--his taking is contained to what // \\ he can hold in his hands. That’s the joke, right? // Sex exempt from vulnerability--no legs spread, // no hips to the edge of the table--only as invasive // as his examination: a zipper, an offer, some fool.

THE JOKE | Emryse Geye

[emryse]

Hello beautiful. I like your writing do you mind if I follow you and be friends with you?

Feel free to follow! 

[emryse]

New website is up! If you've never stopped by, take a moment to click on through to emryse.com! It's now easier to find more poems I've written, all the places I've been published, and some cute pictures of my face!

[emryse]

The collection of graphics I made of my poem “For Dahlia,” published in  Alternating Current Press’ “Spectral Lines: Poems About Scientists” in February 2019.

[emryse]

I am the only girl in lab, and by the time // I return from the stockroom, all the men in my class // have managed to determine which women in our major // they would most like to receive a blowjob from. // When I tell this story, I remember being more surprised // at how far down the list I was, rather than // that the conversation happened at all. // \\\ When my postdoc needed tutoring, // she agreed to meet a creepy graduate student // late at night, alone, in his lab because // that’s the only time he offered, and // she really wanted to pass. // When she tells this story, she shrugs. // He never touched her, so // it wasn’t worth being upset over. // \\\ A professor of mine goes to college in the sixties; // women at her institution are required // to wear skirts in class. One day, she drops // a full bottle of silver nitrate on the floor // and will have stains on her legs for weeks. // When she tells this story, she laughs, // remembering viciously scrubbing at her legs // in the bath because she had a date to get to. // \\\ On December 6, the toughest professor I know // loses her voice behind the names of the fourteen women // killed in the École Polytechnique massacre. // \\\ Annie & Annie // & Anne-Marie & Anne-Marie // & Barbara & Barbara // & Geneviève & Hélène // & Maryse & Maryse // & Maud & Michèle // & Nathalie & Sonia. // \\\ The shooter culled his victims by gender; // he intended to weed out the feminists // and women in the engineering school. // She tells a room full of women // —she tells a room full of scientists— // that hearing the news as a child // made her scared to become a chemist.  // When she tells this story, we weep with her. // \\\ Afterward, someone congratulates her // on her pregnancy that isn’t yet showing, // and she announces that she is having a girl. // The room congregates on her in celebration, // and she smiles when someone else says, // 'I hope she grows up to be a chemist, like you,' // like the horror story we just learned hasn’t // bled into the room, my breath, any time we // might think of bringing other women into // this world knowing what they might suffer. // \\\ She doesn’t say, 'I hope no one tells her she doesn’t belong.' // 'I hope no one harasses her.' // 'I hope no one makes her feel unsafe.' // 'I hope no one tries to kill her.' // \\\ To her daughter—I hope you grow up safe, that you // never stop learning and that you change our world. // Whatever you become, wherever you go, you belong. // You are powerful and strong, and you’ll do incredible things.  You are worthy, you are capable, and more than anything, you deserve and deserve and deserve.

For Dahlia | emryse

Published in  Alternating Current Press’ “Spectral Lines: Poems About Scientists” in February 2019.

[emryse]

PUBLICATION ALERT Look at the swoon worthy cover Alternating Current Press put on this collection! That I am in! Of poetry about scientists! I am one of the 62 authors!

My poem "For Dahlia" was picked up by "Spectral Lines: Poems About Scientists" and I could not be more honored.

[emryse]

Stay tuned!

[emryse]

PUBLICATION ALERT

New (kinda) publication (kinda)! I was interviewed by @portlandstate's literary magazine, @pathoslitmag, about my plans and my process, and you can read that interview here.

PC: Katy Hosbein

[emryse]

We’ve driven to the airport to abandon each other // more times than I can count, //  and each trip, regret is heavy enough on my tongue, //  I can’t rouse it from its hiding place between my teeth. //  \\\ In Texas, I always forget the last burger joint is three exits before; //  on the way to Sea-Tac, I lose the mountain for the trees and then I lose you; //  in the summer in Colorado, there are yellow flowers that line the highway. //  \\\ This time, on this drive, //  I am thinking of the night before: //  and how last night, I was thinking of years before, // when we laid in uncharacteristic Northwestern swelter, //  and how years ago, when we laid there, I was thinking //  that this feeling was familiar, //  like I’ve had it before, like Deja vu, //  like that every time you give me a gift, // I tell you I’ve had this feeling before, //  like I know that you will just keep giving yourself to me forever, //  and so, years later, when we’re in bed again //  —different state, different time //  same summer, same feeling— //  sticky sheets clinging to my slick skin //  the seconds will soak into the mattress //  as sleep orbits me and I orbit you; //  you are a supernova on the horizon— //  to be near you would be to //  burn up, burn away, burn out //  but to be away from you would be to freeze— //  solid and stationary, in this endless, cold space //  under the lonely stars— //  your disappearing warmth //  the only reminder that you were ever there at all. //  \\\ This time, on this drive, I keep looking to the shoulder for //  patches of pretty yellow so I can //  crank the wheel off the road and //  give you a few timeless moments strung together like //  daisy chains made out of flowers in my hair //  but the blooms congregate on the median, not the edge //  and so I wonder if we could dart across the highway fast enough //  or if we would fall to the ground like petals //  and blossom along the asphalt, //  which is to say: //  \\\ to hold you close, I’d make you run through traffic. //  to keep you safe, I’d have you dodge cars. //  to make us whole, I’d carve holes in you in which to plant seeds. //  \\\ But, instead, I’m just looking out the window //  at all those seconds I left on the side of the road //  picking flowers with you when I should have been listening, //  letting you make a posy for me, here and now. //  In an effort to slow down time, I do not speed it up, //  but I lose it, which is effectively the same thing, because //  time spins only one way: //  it spun that way at first kiss, //  and does not stop spinning when I cannot keep up. //  \\\ The Theory of Relativity applies to planets not people so //  even though clocks move slower in areas of high gravity, //  and you and I could be colliding planets— //  because I am inevitably attracted to you, //  drawn into your stronger atmosphere— //  time quantifiably carries on, //  tangible only in its slipping away, like how //  there’s too much time silent in this car, //  but there’s never enough time with you, so //  I’m trying to write this poem on an airport napkin //  to hand to you before your flight— //  my brown paper heart to put yourself in at 30,000 feet— //  \\\ but if I could, //  I would string together hours like a flower crown. //  I would bloom for you in perpetuity— //  budding and blossoming and wilting in cycle— //  in a vase on your bedside, //  in the holes I have left gaping in you, //  in the middle of the road, just out of reach.

Flower Crowns | emryse

Published in the UNC SOAPbox Slam 2016 Team Chapbook, “Mother Moon, Daughter Sun.”

(via emryse)

[emryse]

& it goes pitch-perfect the way that only heartfelt, laugh-track  // sitcoms can, but when Penelope Riera Alvarez tells her daughter  // \\\ you should never be afraid to tell me anything about yourself   // i am still ready for the unlikely (yet, i insist, not impossible)  // moment when this warm woman suddenly goes cold. & after,   // \\\ even though i know that there’s no crisis; that there are daughters   // who have clement conversations with mothers that would never love   // them lesser, that this crucible climaxed without catastrophe—   // \\\ i just can’t shake the smallness in myself. the held breath of  // my adolescence burrows into this mother’s of course. i love you. // & i want you to be happy before ministering it across my years.

ELENA MARIA ALVAREZ RIERA CALDERÓN LEYTEVIDAL INCLAN COMES OUT TO HER MOTHER ON NETFLIX’S “ONE DAY AT A TIME” | emryse

Published in Prickly Pear Printing’s “WE GROW ANYWAY: Queer Poets Explore Love, Growth, and Survival” in November 2018.

[emryse]

The Second Law of Thermodynamics states// that heat can never pass from a colder to a warmer body // without some other change connected therewith. // (It’s a physics thing.) // It means that heat goes only one way. // It means that things can only get colder. // It means that ever since the Big Bang, // things have been steadily cooling off. // \\\ In the beginning, // (scientists don’t quite know what happened, // but moments after the beginning, // we do know) there was a great big heat. // This heat powered the reactions // that combined to form the creatures // which evolved into the people // which descended to make you. // At the beginning of you and I, // we don’t really know what happened. // But moments after our beginning // there was a whole lot of heat, // and ever since our Big Bang // things have been steadily cooling off. // \\\ The Second Law of Thermodynamics // is a law of endings, is a death sentence, // is the final countdown, is the lingering sigh. // Things will be hot until they aren’t: // your coffee, your summers, your Earth’s core // will be hot until they aren’t— // until icecaps are oceans are deserts are star dust, // until thermal equilibrium. // \\\ Your love is hot until it isn’t, // the Second Law of Thermodynamics // does not presume to dictate that which is not made of matter, // and yet, we still call the beginning of an affair “the spark.” // That lingering glance // makes rational, room-temperature people // spontaneously combust, // makes spark, makes heat out of nothing, // makes cold into warm,  makes Big Bang, // makes universe with no choice but to cool down. // \\\ The universe as we know it, will cease to exist // when all heat is equally distributed, // when everything is effectively room temperature: // the reactants are there, but there’s // not enough heat left to power // movement, or collision, or reaction. // A relationship as we know it, // will cease to exist when it becomes room temperature: // you and I are still here, but there’s // not enough heat left for kisses. // \\\ The Second Law of Thermodynamics states // that while the energy of the universe is constant, // the entropy—the disorder—tends towards the maximum. // (It’s a physics thing.) // It means our books and letters and dried flowers // are dispersed between our two homes, // but you cannot collect cream // by stirring your coffee backwards, // you cannot make bodies that are cold // keep giving to bodies that are warm, // and you cannot run the other way so fast // that you would give me back what we’ve lost. // \\\ You cannot stir things apart. // \\\ Time only spins one way, // it spins that way at first kiss, // and does not stop spinning when I cannot keep up. // Candles burn out, // no matter how tall, no matter how bright, // and leave us all in the dark. // \\\ The Second Law of Thermodynamics says // that we are all doomed. // The Second Law says heat death— // that the sun will burn itself out and we will all freeze. // The Second Law says bed death— // that you and I will burn ourselves out, and our love will freeze in the sheets. // \\\ The Second Law of Thermodynamics says // that heat goes only one way. // It means that you will love me: // brightest and hottest // until you don't— // until the candle, the bed, or the very sun burns out.

Et in Arcadia Ego | emryse

From Tom Stoppard’s ARCADIA: “When you stir your rice pudding…the spoonful of jam spreads itself round making red trails like the picture of a meteor in my astronomical atlas. But if you stir backward, the jam will not come together again. Indeed, the pudding does not notice and continues to turn pink. Do you think this is odd?…You cannot stir things apart.”

(via emryse)