Vogue - Original Poetry

[lawrawrrr]

Heyaaa!

So some of you might remember when I used to post my poems in the Articles department (represent!). I've written a lot more since then, especially since I'm doing a Creative Writing degree.

This is one of my latest, and probably best poems. It was using a technique called ekphrasis, when it's based on a work of art or something.

My intent doing this was to give a story behind the woman in the photo. When I was doing a bit of research (I tried to keep it as minimal as possible so it wasn't forced at all and I could let my imagination run free) I found that they thought it might be this woman who had a terrible life and ended up being a porn star. (SFW link)

So yeah. Hope you like it.

Oh warning, it gets a little bit filthy. And it's quite long :p

Vogue




And since you know you cannot see yourself,
so well as by reflection, I, your glass,
will modestly discover to yourself,
that of yourself which you yet know not of.

Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act 1, Scene 2, lines 69-72

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1
There’s a story behind every photograph
This one: it might show my face,
but the story?
It’s not mine.
I’m just a model in a sheet with a cigarette and a lighter
in an abandoned studio
somewhere Vogue sold off years ago


only the long hair loosely held up
from my face, only the sound
of silk against my collarbone
adjusted to the reflections of an eye
belong to me


I was poised
sat,
trembling and unsatisfied
before an unflashed
camera,
a second of suspense
held in a moment
printed to last


2
“just hold it” he said
“it won’t hurt you”
(referring to the lighter; of course)
“put your hand on your neck
yeah
just like that
thumb on the other side”
like I’m on the verge
about to finish the job
the suffocation this
cigarette is forcing on me


3
They let me keep a copy
I wasn’t even a main feature
only a side thought
an article:
Women in Power


I didn’t care.


Now, it’s balled up
by the phone
covered in scribbles
thousands of numbers
of men I forgot long ago


4
“You’ll die at fifteen” my father said
as I ran out the door
before he had the chance to finish
the job himself.
I left, ran as far
as I could.
The air, filled with
sour alcohol and burnt cigarettes
never left.


Fifteen came
and went.
I didn’t die
despite my wish.


5
There’s something special
about being made up.
There were women
fussing after me
hour after hour.
Eyeliner wasn’t thick enough
one hair was out of place
my eyes looked ‘odd’
ears
forehead…
I didn’t realise so much
could be wrong
with one person.


6
Mere talent was never enough for me
I spent my entire life
constantly looking behind,
seeing glitter in fragments
rough drafts waiting
for someone to finish.


I wanted someone
to see that in me
to help -
but they couldn’t
wouldn’t
what I did was never ‘talent’ anyway


I was just a modest girl
corrupted by those
who were supposed to love me;
care for me and ensure my safety –
they pushed me to this.
I’m outside their boundaries now
so far I can’t even see the lines
they forced on me.


7
All they see
is the girl I’m not
they see Traci.
Traci, the porn star
when they touch themselves
over filthy images of me
disgusting in so many ways
but it’s fine for them.
They don’t see me.


8
Time is remorseless
in the hands of
its owners
(men)
standing in a crowded room
one of them raises his cup to the fair
and the pleasant;
the ladies who surround him.
His gallantry blinds them
as they swarm to hear
their mediocrities over-praised,
their every lapse forgiven,
to cast a shadow
and smash the mould off.


I am standing to the side
my abnegation mistaken
for indolence.
My solitary confinement;
few applicants for this honour.


9
They sang my praises
when they finished the shoot:
even as an amateur
I’d done everything they said.
I still remember
the photographer:
“you have to have been the
most captivating
woman I’ve shot”
It’s funny.
Even then I was past tense.


10
From then
it spiralled out of control:
I drifted
from one shoot
to another
meeting photographers
who always pushed me
just a little further;
less clothes
then none at all.
People got to know my face
thought they knew me
I became a conversation piece -
I discovered film
and I hated it.
I hated me.


All that I might have been,
all that I was – fire, tears,
glitter in shards
my martyred ambition –
crumbled away
from the very first
flash
(not that I noticed
until it was far too late)


11
Now you see.
It’s been a long time coming.
My mind full,
I stand on the edge of a cliff
and tip over the rocks
falling
for a second
I am
flying,
bare-breasted,
until I break the currents
and sink below.


12
In another story
I rose to the surface
and, naked, plunged ahead
my shoulders parting the sea.
A helicopter hovered above,
mirroring my steady strokes
its fine blades making the air wince
its cargo unpromised and unwished for:
another girl without a story
but they rescued her
and sold it anyway.


13
Money is male.
It will take who
and what
and how
it wants
and leave nothing behind
no remorse.


14
The story
they claim -
it’s been written
a thousand times
read and interpreted,
re-written time after time -
it’s not mine.
It has been
manipulated
out of my reach.
My story is
palpable;
my story is
yours.