| So there’s that Girl, in that city where you live, and She looks as if She’s scrolled down all the pages of the internet and has read all the comments left behind like slurs left behind in your ear in a diatribe by MRAs and people whose ways are paved with good intentions about what men like in a woman and has done the opposite. She is both taller and shorter than you wish and probably skinnier and fatter too— and She doesn’t hide it She wears less and more than the magazines dictated to Her say to. She won’t hide Her curves—no, fat. And She won’t hide Her collarbone that sticks out. She wears high-waisted jeans and skirts maxied. She carries an oversized tote second hand, off-brand while taking a smoke. She’ll wear colours that scream at you make you look at Her even though you don’t want to just like her heels will make you look up to Her. You catcall Her. She side-eyes you with Her cat-eye glasses With neon orange lips or deep dark red She’ll turn Her head To face you, to say “fuck you”. And Her hair of unnatural shades probably teal, or red, or grey, or all of them will flip back —unless it’s cut short— and you’ll see the sides of Her head are shaved naked while the rest blows in the wind and She’ll walk on by you will call Her a fake. Doesn’t She look great? | |
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This one is an oldie that not many people have seen...
Hitting the Books by Brittany Renaud Studying at ol’ J.N.G., P.S., My favourite librarian-- the only librarian I’d ever known then-- told my class—me, that boys carry their books under their arm like a car t-boning a semi and girls carry their books against their guts: arms criss-cross applesauce like a curtsy. Why are girls’ guts needed to press against books like a caress while walking upright and proper? Why is a boy’s book jammed in his armpit as if it can perspire? In the modern day can’t the boys and girls play at equal measure? But how can they when girls must hold their books like a treasure while boys tuck them under their arms and go about their pleasure? At the post-secondary university level, there are more arms criss-crossed applesauce than t-boning semis and yet jammed armpits sit higher post post-secondary. Open mic night is the Baileys
in your coffee in the morning after unzipping the door to the lingering smell of evergreens while you’re still wearing pajamas and no bra. Spoken word is the red wine left in your mind and at the end of the most romantic date of your life in that gown the little girl in you dreamed of…and you didn’t have to pay for a thing. Poetry slams are the vodka, cranberry, and lime (or the whiskey or bourbon for you sensitive types) in the middle of a night club where you’re up on a platform and all eyes are on your bare legs, sculpted ass, nice rack, perfect hair and they’re cheering on that slow burn that hits you like a wallop so you don’t know which way is up. Poetry after a hard day’s work. Testing...testing...Is anyone out there?
I'm Brittany Renaud and I hope to offer myself to you in pieces: Pieces of thought Pieces of poetry Pieces of over-analyzing literature and other texts Pieces of Poetics My mission statement is to bring poetry to everyone in consumable, approachable chunks. While many of us poets love our pretension, I hope to make the world of poetry as accessible as possible through my own poetry and tidbits of knowledge I've learned along the way. |
Brittany RenaudPoet. Activist. Writer. Over-analyst. I use all these words to describe myself and more. I'm interested in spreading the word of poetry and acceptance. ArchivesCategories |
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