tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-326558802011-11-06T12:35:30.436-08:00Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.comBlogger251100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-88349755794892994242011-04-28T12:05:00.000-07:002011-04-28T12:08:31.501-07:00

All Those Who Ever Did Me Wrong Are White:Why I am Nice to Black (and Brown) PeopleI don’t suffer under a burden of responsibility for all that I am a Southerner. It is in my blood to know that my great, great granddaddy Lev must have hurled his share of racial epithets, even if he was too poor to be a slave-holder like my great, great, great granddaddy from Virginia likely was. I hate it, but I

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-61221551381640264812010-10-28T08:56:00.000-07:002010-10-28T08:58:55.714-07:00

He put his hand over my mouth,assuring me with shushes, “Relax, you’ll like it.”................................I didn’t, any more than you enjoy reading this.He put bruises on my thighs,my underwear down around my knees.................................Bear [witness] with me here.He put his penis inside me,along with quite a few abrasions.................................Breathe through the lines,

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-755160554819863242010-09-10T10:45:00.000-07:002010-09-10T10:47:47.392-07:00

The mother in mewould remove your lungsby teaspoons overa number of months,watching your breathgrow precious.She would have youlive long years,seeing thosewhom you have loveddie in your eyes,waking you oftento view reruns.The woman whoput her child to sleepbrushing circleswith her cheek ona tiny head of baby hairwould hood youand beat you on bare feet withbouquets of barbed wire.The sensible

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-70030222243935713722008-07-20T12:24:00.000-07:002008-07-20T12:55:54.665-07:00

I have thought, ever since I began reading and writing poetry that poetry written by the warriors who return from battle and the poetry written by those who have experienced rape are eerily similar. This phenomenon was referenced in a piece on This American Life by a person who experienced rape and war and suffered PTSD. Listen here when it is available.I am referencing other works in this

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-71226572064796783702008-07-20T11:54:00.000-07:002008-07-20T11:55:34.057-07:00

he would seduce me after my music lessonoffering attention and trauma in unequal measuresI would play scales for Blancheand then pay the piper for himTommie would wonder why I was so ungratefulstopping the lessons so soonso latemy sister would have loved to play longerbut she didn’t have the advantages I was offeredlucky menow I sit in a classroom listening to piano concertosand fuguesI

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-38284807885264730562008-06-26T06:29:00.000-07:002010-02-04T19:09:31.023-08:00

I am no big fan of the death penalty. I think poor people get executed and rich people get away with it. DNA testing has proved we were about to execute some people innocent of the crime they were set to die for. I am appalled that we could be so wrong.If we have the death penalty and are going to use it, we need to have some rules for who, when and in what cases we use it. If the rule is that we

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-11166150743699188662007-11-30T15:36:00.000-08:002010-02-04T19:08:34.799-08:00

A Curse on those Offended by Rape PoemsYou dare not stitch my lips mending the part that offends,whipping the edges of my condemnation, hemming in thick layers of guilt.I reject pointy fingers and sharp intakes of breath,hurtful as the pain of forced intercourse.Slashes in secret places do not easily suture up.We bleed far longer than the stains on bandages suggest.She did not dress

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-2641635673710171052007-10-23T08:53:00.000-07:002007-10-23T09:07:13.704-07:00

How I Prepared for a Poetry ReadingDomestic Violence Awareness Month, 2007Crying in bed Was just practice for the tears they shed.Dodging bullets was a drillfor weaving through a crowdto stand before the one womanI know wants to say somethingbut may not have the feet to walk.I ate too much then for comfort.I can work the room to dispense some,skipping the cheese and crackers.Worrying that he

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-66616877809726491832007-10-18T09:22:00.000-07:002007-10-18T09:38:01.271-07:00

Jo said she was sorry, that her words meant nothing. I have lived for weeks on the words of someone who cares. Words mean everything. Thanks, Jo.Words for Us GirlsWhisper I love you Say I adore the way your mouth looksCome here, beautifulHere, let me get thatYou have waited long enoughYou deserve betterI am so glad I am hereYou make me feel safeHold meIt's a girlShe's perfectI just had to

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-73448997389536910882007-10-06T15:00:00.000-07:002007-10-06T15:35:56.716-07:00

They say you were a wonderful man.Dead at 53,leaving a wife andchildren.Do they count the 5-year-oldyou were flying to meet?So sweet of youto bring her a doll,to teach her maybe,the ways of a baby explorer,since you have "done it plenty.""always gentle and loving; not to worry; no damage ever; no rough stuff ever; I only like it soft and nice"Pillar of the community,Coach,Assitant U S Attorney,

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-65713319780080463122007-09-25T08:38:00.000-07:002010-10-28T08:52:42.967-07:00

I have mowed this yard for years.I know that there are turns and twists around the corner of the house that you cannot see from here. If you mow this yard, you may choose not to go to the end of the daisiesand then pull back where the tulips will come up in the spring. You may mow this yardand retrace each line without turning around and I always turned around at each end.If you mow this yard, I

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-72832388000469379622007-09-20T00:23:00.001-07:002007-09-21T09:52:11.966-07:00

What did you think when I told youthat he pushed aside my child's size 4 underwearin order to plunge his man's size 9 hand into me?Were you humming to yourself,distracted by the ingredients tosome cake you were about to bake?How long did you study on the factsbefore you pushed them to the backof your mind,"I wish I didn't know that."Did you think I would relent some dayand allow you to talk of

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-72943292810944340812007-06-14T15:07:00.000-07:002007-06-14T15:09:02.719-07:00

The color could be covered, but the swelling could not. She is a lumpy woman; bumps on her head and sags at her hips, the one from him directly, the other from him through his kids. His kids, they are, even without his taglines on them. She is the page for his byline. Some writer, he, inscribing lines across her cheekbones. His generous use of punctuation leaves the reader with no doubt as to

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-42794982330623277932007-05-06T11:11:00.000-07:002007-05-06T11:16:17.025-07:00

Some men are just meandaughterfuckerspleased as punch to gouge out holeswhere there should be none,at least not yet.And yet, for some reason,Little Princess is expectedto burp politely, behind her hand,never let the gas escape, (Cry Rape!)“Oh, excuse me, so sorry!”Do not become, my dear,so destroyed in your soulthat you will spread your legsand point, to that spot, (Crotch Rot!)“Ouch, it hurts me

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-60098763237318117912007-03-30T11:14:00.000-07:002007-04-05T11:39:18.271-07:00

You have my old tennis racquet, sleep in my Bob Seger t-shirts.There are light spots on the wallpaper where two beards and a Beard were smashed by Pumpkins.I preferred a magic, gauzy coverlet from India to your layer cake of quilt, blanket, sheet, second blanket. What makes you so chilly? Is it the hand that reached out to lift away your layers? Do old

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-29217548301505532302007-01-30T06:09:00.000-08:002007-04-05T11:39:39.368-07:00

You never took me to school.The too big bus took me to school.I never went willingly.What should have been a refuge,overwhelmed.I always assumed the worst.If there were dogs,they would bite me.If there were people,they would hurt me.If there were lessons,they would be hard ones.Not hard, as in tough to learn,but hard, as in tough to cover upthe fear,the bruises,the tears that always want to

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-1158989226951294752006-09-22T22:23:00.000-07:002007-04-05T11:40:05.127-07:00

Can we talk?I mean, since you’re dead and all,and not really dangerousand I get to make up your answers.So, let’s talk.I think of you,when I think of you,smiling.Funny, that.You never did much.The good Lord knowsyou were hardly fun.Your smile was just that bright.You were tall.Six foot, five, I think.Very dark hair.Very blue eyes.I still like that combination.Little girls just love their

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-1155783993864489102006-08-16T20:06:00.000-07:002007-04-05T11:40:32.713-07:00

There was no time to gather up clothes or toys.There were never many of either anyway.when we leftMany times there was a pistol.Usually there were bruises.Often it was night.Once in a storm.It was chaos when we left,from the outside looking in,but we knew our cues.Right after the fists,just before the gunshots,during the screaming.then we leftMostly to Tommie’s house.Sometimes to Sherry’s

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-1155783857014815562006-08-16T20:03:00.000-07:002007-04-05T11:40:58.404-07:00

Hello, I am your daughter, Jim.James, I have your hair.My brain could match youthought for think.My liver match youdraught for drink.Good morning, Junior, it is me.Jimmy, you’re my dad.Down in Sheol I betyou need me.Hinnom’s offering,you’d feed me.Good afternoon, Dead Daddy, you.Papa of the Grave.Seems for you there’s noNirvana.No cool drop fromGoddess Ana.Sleep tight, Old Man, I won’t be

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-1155783763907882002006-08-16T20:00:00.000-07:002007-04-05T11:41:39.730-07:00

I was certain you were gone.How did you get here?Did you travel on the stream of air that flew mehome and back when Leonard died?Were you visiting other gravesites and just happened to show up at his?Did you think, now this would be some fun.Let’s see how long it takes for her to notice me?I never realized she could be so amusing.Puff of air to the back of her neck and she brushes at me like a

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-1155783504800562982006-08-16T19:57:00.000-07:002007-04-05T11:42:09.516-07:00

Daddy, you are consuming my poetry.Hungry for more of me than you ever cared to notice before.I cannot write of cat’s whiskers and motes of dust in light streams.Only you.Dead and buried you live on in my creativity.Spending more time with me now than when I was a tiny girl.I sit with pencil and paper awaiting what has always flowed so freely.Movement from the corner of the room shows you

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-1155783323635010862006-08-16T19:49:00.000-07:002007-04-05T11:42:38.695-07:00

They packed the freshly unwrapped presents into the van. Goodbyes left unsaid – he sat down and died.Right there in the big comfy chair that Tommy will not now sit in – He just died on Christmas Eve.Never having to slip-slide over icy West Tennessee roads, he strode into Heaven instead, avoiding the perilous path for a much safer one.They pronounced him at the

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-1155782888556296132006-08-16T19:45:00.000-07:002007-04-05T11:42:58.303-07:00

Father, you grieve me so as you go into the dark unknown afterlife.Left me here, Sister and Mother but never your Daughter, though.Elegiac couplet, you and I, meant for a prescribed path to walk these fields of cotton,my five to your six.How did we become instead the proscribed outlaw couple?These high cotton fibers make into such strong thread,mercerized, woven into ties that bind.In us, they

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-1155782725757057402006-08-16T19:44:00.000-07:002007-04-05T11:43:37.277-07:00

Just for the record, I did not send the flowers.So I did not need thanking,not that I was thanked.I was, instead, serveddefault judgment—­in my judgment­—I judge­—I find him guilty—his fault.All his faultfrom my crooked teeth with the gaping cavities thatcaused such exquisite pain and kept me awaketo my crooked psyche with the yawning chasmhungry for love.All the unfilled spacesfound their fill

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32655880.post-1155474156288173772006-08-13T06:02:00.000-07:002007-04-05T11:44:22.829-07:00

For some time, you have heard some of the poetry I write that is flavored by the life I knew with my daddy. I have written poems you will never read, because I have burned them or torn them up or gotten past them. Frankly there are whole sections of my poetic life that I don't remember. I know I was writing. I remember doing it. I just don't know what. Then there were times when I couldn't write

Cyn Huddlestonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698496590225633741noreply@blogger.com3