Did you forget what it feels like to love?
You would prefer to hate the past
and blame me for all your wrongdoings.
I am an open dart and your hands
the weapon. You did forget,
say the truth, you pretend
to love me. I see through it.
I lay down awake,
but I was a cliche dead
inside. I cried and you watched
me, sending others to comfort me
while you left
destroyed us once again.
I knew this would happen.
I am a witch after all. Love
has a way of pulling you apart
when you close it down.
I can detach, this is my power
I can run, this is my ache
I can stay, this is my mission
I can order for two
and only be one.
All the love you promised
I mopped it away
with the urine stains.
Did you forget what it feels like to love?
I can no longer remind you,
for I forgot what it feels like to love.
I do answer my own questions
I am a poet
and my dog needs me.
i stand still
to see who moves
toward my light.
i run fast
to feel your dreams
embrace my emptiness.
i am not here.
It started off as a slow death
alone with my box of books
as I am alone with my paper and thoughts.
Rebecca read 1973 and cried
and now a complete stranger is in my poem.
What is your book about?
It’s a poetry book.
It is funny to see how there are
so many people that love poetry
but in reality
this is a farce
for 21 books were sold
and a few underhanded
in some Greek style black market.
Oh well, this is the foundation of ancestors
somewhere inside me.
Are you Christina?
Yes, I am.
Can you please dedicate the book
to the one that got away.
Can you please write Happy Birthday Aaron?
One k in Niki,
you learn more about yourself
you listen more when everyone talks.
I suppose not writing is my therapy as well
up until I…
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I will make this a Hellenistic hymn to all my ancestors
who believed in the twelve Olympian gods. We had to
memorize them in Greek school, learn how to write
them, practice our diction to continue the traditions
of people I never met. We learned that Zeus and Hera
were the Queen and the King and everyone that came
after did so with intentions to create this world of caves,
darkness, silent roads, mountains that reach the
sky. I learned to see mirrors in rivers. I was taught that
stories can corrupt my mind into believing myths
as real. So young, even Hercules became my idol and
my hero. Who can compete with the gods? No mere
mortal man could ever win my heart. I wanted the
top of the echelon. I wanted my own Zeus, who created
the world out of chaos. Who else could tame my soul?
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5 out of 5 stars.
I have to say receiving a signed copy of this book in the mail was a real treat. I loved it from the first page and the first look. I know when a poetry book will be one of my favourites or not, by the feel, look and glancing at a few poems, I instantly knew this one would be one of them. Brice Maiurro’s debut poetry book, Stupid Flowers is a poetry book with a certain rawness to it that I could relate to.
Brice Maiurro brings in actual events, whether true or not, and combines them in every day poetry. Written in lowercase and with unusual witty titles each poem stands out for its own quirky themes. Titles such as, “Talking to God Over Shitty Coffee at Denny’s” make you smile and by the end of the poem, make you reflect on life, destiny and society as well as church. Maiurro has a way of stirring the poetry pot with the important ingredients floating on top and the mundane sinking to the bottom. In the poem “3015 Kamia” there is a section that I read over and over again.
“i’ve been taught to look at the mountains
the sky the trees the murals on the sides of buildings
but you reminded me how god hides
in the places you’d least expect to see her”
What I adore about these four lines is how poetry, the way it is supposed to be written, should not tell you what the poem is about, but should hint and leave it open-ended. First off, he compares man made art, such as murals, to the sky and in doing this he includes the concrete with the abstract, to emphasize his point of beauty and attraction is not limited to nature, as most poets feel; in essence, we see it as we drive or walk in the city. Murals are an oddity, because people do stare and love art on walls; the grandiose and mystery of it, the colours and the talent, this alongside god being a woman, is a poem that leaves you in a reflective mood.
Each poem and use of stream of consciousness leaves you to interpret this poetry book with all its implications. Poetry is ambiguous, this is what most people find hard to understand about poetry. By leaving some things unsaid, you, the reader, fill in the details, and Brice Maiurro, does an exceptional job of this. The interpretation of his poems leaves the reader to imagine what and this is what literature is all about.
There was one poem, “dear maria” which especially touched me and made me cry. Not only is my daughter’s name, coincidentally Maria, but she is also going through her own little turmoil as a teenager, and this poem was reflective of all the maria’s. I made her read it, and at sixteen, she wants to read this poetry book. It is an outstanding poem, and by far, my favourite of this whole collection.
Brice Maiurro makes up his own composition of life with these poems in Stupid Flowers. This is a debut collection of poetry by this poet out of Denver, Colarado, and I am looking forward to reading more of his work in the future.
I think this is a valuable book, in consideration of what other poetry books are out there circulating in the poetry section. This book reflects the heart of a true poet with a talent to see the unseen.
Published by Punch Drunk Press Ltd.