The World and Writing of Rosie D. Ruthers from Erotica to Paranormal Romance to Pulp fiction and Essays on Writing and More.
I will follow you I didn’t want to at the start When you kept shining that spot light on me Blinking Blinding I didn’t like what you said What you were finding As you walked around Tut Tut Tutting Then muttering All That Muttering Nearly drove me mad But now I see it was me […]
via Pillaging Poetry — A Thousand Bits of Paper
Followers if you can’t tell this is one of my favorite blogs and truthfully favorite poets. This poem is…well, for me, it is just incredibly evocative.
kissing tenderly, as our husbands watch,
their passions temporarily placid, bodies weary,
cocks shiny and flaccid, our mouths tasting of their cum, and of scotch, fingers tenderly explore moistened crotch, head moving down, as yours hands gently urge, till my delving tongue, makes arousal surge, finding your hard clit, jutting from its notch, once limp […]
The waves roll in,
drowning my feet,
When some lifting force makes me scream,
Up and over the waves,
Some how my poor toes are saved,
And he wraps me up in his arms,
He laughs at my alarm,
And down we fall into the icey waves,
But they don’t feel cold at all.
It may sound traitorous,
But I don’t want to be in love today.
Want just me and myself to sail away.
To feel the breeze instead of on my knees,
To be apart except for in the heart,
To be like one yet spread apart,
Even when I love it…there are storms.
Even when I’m with you I’m always torn,
I’m a loner whose living unnaturally,
I’d give it up,
Because I love you naturally.
But with that said
I don’t want to be your love today.
Just pack my things and run away,
And it is nothing that you’ve done
But I’d like to be just me originally,
To be,
Alone like a person,
Even though I’m half a person without you.
Somehow it seems the best thing to do.
You’re not like me.
No you’re desperately in love,
In a way I cannot be,
Because I like to be alone with me,
Does that change a thing?
When I sing my songs about you?
When I only want to dance with you?
If so what shall I do?
Don’t tell me I’m not a lover,
If everything isn’t about him,
I love and I do miss him,
But I miss me myself alone too,
So the wisest thing to do,
Is temporarily to try to be,
Alone with me.
*Poetry for an introverted lover.
In text of zeroes and ones,
He professes desire to me,
Across a screen brighter,
Than the fires of hell,
He plots to tempt me,
Because he saw my face by chance,
After months of radio silence,
And his heart, for a second, skipped a beat,
Across a thousand wires and wavelengths,
Lust in the modern age,
Blossoms,
Like the fruits that burst red and juicy,
On Persephone’s tongue,
“Lure me” or perhaps she said,
“Lure me?” or perhaps she said,
“Lure me!” but we’ll never quite know.
Perhaps she doesn’t quite know,
But it Flows.
But it Follows.
But does it Grow?
Who knows?
But across some far off distance,
Or closer than I hoped,
I became an object of desire,
He plots, leaving the door open,
Lure me or lure me or lure me.
Across clicks and churns and,
Chuggings of hard drive,
By chance he saw me, and I?
Who knows?
I’ve been debating releasing a collection of erotic poetry I’ve been adding to for the past…nine years? And as I’ve been thinking about it I wondered..do you guys buy poetry? I do on occasion, but more and more I have begun to wonder if poetry only sells if you are lucky enough to end up in the New York Times. Plenty of other writers have had success as poets, and poetry publishers.
Nikki Grimes,whose published 50 books over the course of 30 years, had a pretty honest perspective about selling poetry that I find very realistic:
To be fair, if you are a poet, it is highly unlikely that you will become wealthy working in this genre, no matter how well you hone your craft. That much is true. But chances are, you already know that. I would wager that most writers, keen on this particular genre, aren’t looking to make a killing in the marketplace. They simply have a penchant for the lyrical line, and a passion for metaphor. Like me, they pen poetry because they, quite frankly, can’t help themselves. Poetry is in them. It’s part of their DNA. Poets don’t value their work in terms of fiscal weight, and that’s where we differ from agents and editors.
No one alive should ever expect to break bank via publishing. It’s just not how it goes, but you can be comfortable. Besides poetry is about the feeling, the intent, and inspiring others to feel and see in new exciting ways. But here is the catcher. I am a poet who likes to have food and ,ya know, live.
As I’ve researched poetry publishing it is becoming clear that it’s a gamble, no one knows either way how it could go, but ya know what? Don’t act like you’ll make money. Act like you’ll do what you love. That’s…hard to do sometimes.
Still the world would be lesser for a lack of poetry than an overabundance. Poetry, like music, can do things in a line that thousand page novels fail to do in 400 pages not because those 400 pages are ineffective, but because the minimalist nature of a poem can do things in ways novels simply can’t do. In that way poetry offers an exceptional learning opportunity for writers of all kinds…which I will detail in my next post. For now let me say that poetry is incredibly important for writers to read and comprehend. You don’t have to like all poetry, but reading a diversity of poetry can sharpen your skills at conveying feeling, producing imagery, and understanding line structure.
I am proud to say I write great dialogue because I read and wrote poetry starting from 10 years old. Actually maybe even younger I remember reading Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings at some point with my mother’s help. How did poetry help me write dialogue? A good insult should be as sharp as a good poem and just as heavy with the punctuation. A proclamation of love that, I believe, has the most effect can be as simple as one line when you craft to context well. Poetry has done a lot of me as a writer, as a human being, and I know I’m not alone.
So why do we let it go so under appreciated? Why do people hesitate to spend $5 on a book of poetry that could effect them as deeply as 400 pages? Times are tough for many people. Yet even still there is so much we could do if we embraced poets more.
No one should ever expect to get rich off of writing. If you read those “I made a Bajillion $$$ Writing Ebooks” articles and believed them I’m sorry. There’s a reason a ton of those articles reference Stephen King or J.K Rowling, and not hundreds and hundreds of other writers. There’s a million of us. Yes, some are better than others, but this field must be about passion. Whether you write to market or no you must display some kind of passion because $$$$ doesn’t just fall into your lap; because you may write 30 good books before ever making $500; because so many authors haven’t been “discovered” until after their deaths. Writing is a cold hard mistress, and I’d say poetry holds a steel tipped whip.
But we can make it softer.
If we consume each other. If we’re willing to take that risk and buy a random book of poetry, if we’re willing to say our emotional and mental labors are worth something.
We have to create and contribute to the market as both buyers and writers. We have to recommend books and poets to build excitement and appreciation for poetry.
Check out my two releases:
Suffer too Good and Dirty Honey on Amazon.
Churning emotions bubble forth,
Too much silence in the noise,
Everything stark,
Colorful only because of yearning,
Pulses pounding turns to pressure building,
Thudding, laughing, with the beat of blood,
And the heat that pierces through much and mud,
Leaving him and I and us together,
Alone,
Then together,
Breaths speeding in unison,
Bright red, yellow like wheat, and black like ravens,
With that subtle sort of blue that highlights the dark,
As scream through our hearts,
As the crowd listens.
As the sweat stains sheets and clothes and sofas,
As they laugh.
As they die.
Everything stark in perfect clarity,
Super heightened superficiality,
Fuck it and enjoy it.
Means everything, but ignore it when
The Light Comes Up And
The city is full of empty noise,
But for a moment there is an excited silence between,
Lovers…between…enemies…between breaths.
The spaces between the pulses.
The spaces between the buildings.
The silence between the screams.
So What Is The Difference between Love and Hate?
What does it take to kiss a girl?
Must you be filled with desire?
Must you be ruled by primal compulsion?
Perhaps you must feel brave and full of things,
No one could ever give word to.
What does it take to kiss a girl with,
Diamond eyes,
And fire lips,
And fuller hips,
And a laugh like vinegar,
But that never makes you wilt.
What is it like to kiss a girl?
Is it soft like feather down,
Or warm and spiced like warmed cinnamon,
Or mulled wine?
Is it spicy like raw chilis against your lips,
Or tantalizing like chocolate covered chilis
Repeating the nature of artisan delights,
That excite…that burn…
That leave you quivering and aching and…
I do not know.
I wish I did, but I do not know.
But if I did know I’d imagine it’d be
Slow…
Warming until it explodes…
At once sweet like sugar…
And creamy like the finest custard,
I imagine it’d be a lot like this poem.
I imagine it’d be a new kind of perfect.
*************************************
“If the last round left me with only pleasure to think about…this round would leave me with only him on my mind. Mike promised to push me when we started this, but he could be full of more surprises than I ever knew.”
Dirty Honey
“In the world of lust and the taboo there is fear, but there is also unyielding passion. Eve may be an accountant by day, but Carver has opened her eyes to that world of bondage, submission, and connection that shows she’s far more than the chubby girl her co-workers know. The world doesn’t know their deep dark secrets, and they’re beginning to push how far they can go before someone figures it out even if it means risking everything for a public thrill.”
Dreaming through the circuit.
Power cut
Full of rage.
Cogniscent and untamed
Grabbed then by unyielding lust,
Lingering trust,
And pinned beneath the full moon,
By old egos and,
Broken shadows that,
Cannot breathe, but remain alive enough to gasp.
Short circuiting electricity through bruised sockets,
And wounded knees,
And itchy eye lashes,
Over eyes that stare at the screen and,
Don’t care if you’re mean or green,
Just seen.
Dreaming through the circuit.
As a circus of baby pictures, and baby’s baby pictures,
Play across my technological miracle faster than I can see.
Pseudo lovers converse over memes,
And a man bleeds onto the streets while,
Someone laughs insensitively,
And another scrolls past sensibly because,
Another death will bring them to their knees,
And another death because they do what they please,
And here they all hopeless romantics dream.
And pretend.
And Sleeze
And Spend.
And end.
A Poem from my soon to be published collection.
The First.
Buried deep,
Lost in lust,
Giving to him unwavering trust,
The heart races,
The mind runs,
And all sensation is wonder,
His lips on mine,
Hands flowing down his back,
Legs about his waist,
Slowness,
Burns into desire,
Desire cascades into pleasure.
Bound By Rosie 