Ghost [Warning: Explicit]

[mongolfiere]

As a child,
I relied on being funny to make friends.
My caterpillar eyebrows and middle-parted hair
Made fitting in a ghost in the creaky house of insecurities;
A moving concept, but still dead.

My whole life,
I have felt like a ghost;
Stuck between two worlds and never really existing in either of them.
I was seventeen the first time someone called me a nigger.
We were on the school bus.
That same year, outside of my best friend’s house,
A boy whispered in my ear that "white girls do it better."
Then a boy in McDonald’s whispered in my ear that
"Only niggers do that."
I was drinking a milk shake.

In none of these instances did I stand up for myself.
In none of these instances did I punch their smug faces.
Because I have been conditioned to find it funny.
I have been taught to laugh when my family calls me “Oreo.”
Laugh when my brother’s friends ask if I’m adopted.
Laugh when people at church stare,
Wondering if I am my cousin’s teenage mother
Simply because we are the same color.
My transparency is not funny.
Too dark to really shine
Too white to be a part of the community;
A sister.
“I’m not really black” and “my black half-siblings don’t
Really count as family” but yet
My white half-brother once told me I "came out the wrong color."

I am a ghost,
Floating over a physical happiness my sheer hands will never be able to grasp.
I am a ghost,
Trapped between two worlds but never the best of both.
And the next time I am called an Oreo,
I will most likely laugh it off.
But if you listen closely,
You will hear the moans of a colorless girl
Mourning the life she will never get the chance to live.

[ChristopherSea]

Greetings mongolfiere! This is certainly an emotive piece and the ‘ghost’ metaphor is apropos.
The ending is certainly poignant and haunting as well.

I do think that you could make this more compelling as poetry rather than keep it in the prose style
that it has now. You narrate most of the piece as opposed to illustrating it.

You could also make better use of that ghost to perhaps haunt those espousing bigotry towards your narrator.
As it is now, your ghost is more of an invisible vapor preyed upon by an ignorant public and family for that matter.
I realize helplessness may be the only ghostly property that you want to convey, i.e., a being with no ability to
change the physical world. However, I am just itching/routing for that specter to have some revenge!

I recommend that you wrap yourself in the ghostly veil a bit more and don’t recite every experience in narrative,
as we are much more interested in this fading woman and her feelings and observations than the imbeciles
with their sticks and stones. In doing so, use the umbrella of your core metaphor.

Good luck with your edit and welcome to the site! Cheers/Chris

[ellajam]

Hi and welcome. I think you have plenty to work with here. Although there is some interesting wording and a strong image or two you may gain from reading around the site about poetic techniques and there's a fun link on the home page to Colin Ward's Poetry Tips.

So, my read: In the first five lines I would have liked a funny image instead of being told the Narrator was funny. Through the first eight lines I still have no idea what the issue is and although race comes through after that, biracial, which I think is what is going on, doesn't come in until the third strophe. I'd like to have known earlier.

"I was seventeen the first time someone called me a nigger." This line sparked my interest because bigotry usually appears earlier, it made me think the Narrator was somehow protected, though now I think it may just be childhood that protected her.

"Then a boy in McDonald’s whispered in my ear that
"Only niggers do that."
I was drinking a milk shake. "
I thought these three lines were very effective, it set the imagination going and brought a strong image.

The whole third strophe I would prefer condensed into a few clear images, it's mostly tell, little show, bring on those poetic devices I mentioned.

"I am a ghost,
Floating over a physical happiness my sheer hands will never be able to grasp."
I might cut "physical" but I love the sheer hands.

I hope my comments help and that you enjoy the site.

As a child,
I relied on being funny to make friends.
My caterpillar eyebrows and middle-parted hair
Made fitting in a ghost in the creaky house of insecurities;
A moving concept, but still dead.

My whole life,
I have felt like a ghost;
Stuck between two worlds and never really existing in either of them.
I was seventeen the first time someone called me a nigger.
We were on the school bus.
That same year, outside of my best friend’s house,
A boy whispered in my ear that "white girls do it better."
Then a boy in McDonald’s whispered in my ear that
"Only niggers do that."
I was drinking a milk shake.

In none of these instances did I stand up for myself.
In none of these instances did I punch their smug faces.
Because I have been conditioned to find it funny.
I have been taught to laugh when my family calls me “Oreo.”
Laugh when my brother’s friends ask if I’m adopted.
Laugh when people at church stare,
Wondering if I am my cousin’s teenage mother
Simply because we are the same color.
My transparency is not funny.
Too dark to really shine
Too white to be a part of the community;
A sister.
“I’m not really black” and “my black half-siblings don’t
Really count as family” but yet
My white half-brother once told me I "came out the wrong color."

I am a ghost,
Floating over a physical happiness my sheer hands will never be able to grasp.
I am a ghost,
Trapped between two worlds but never the best of both.
And the next time I am called an Oreo,
I will most likely laugh it off.
But if you listen closely,
You will hear the moans of a colorless girl
Mourning the life she will never get the chance to live.

[mongolfiere]

Thank you both so much for the feedback! You've left me with a lot to think about and I look forward to reworking this piece.

[ellajam]

Thank you both so much for the feedback! You've left me with a lot to think about and I look forward to reworking this piece.

Me too . When you post your next version just put it above your original so that it's the first thing newcomers to the thread read.

Remember, the more critique you give the more carefully you'll read and the more you'll be able to see what works and what doesn't in your own work.

Have fun

[shemthepenman]

As a child,
I relied on being funny to make friends.
My caterpillar eyebrows and middle-parted hair
Made fitting in a ghost in the creaky house of insecurities;
A moving concept, but still dead.

My whole life,
I have felt like a ghost;
Stuck between two worlds and never really existing in either of them.
I was seventeen the first time someone called me a nigger.
We were on the school bus.
That same year, outside of my best friend’s house,
A boy whispered in my ear that "white girls do it better."
Then a boy in McDonald’s whispered in my ear that
"Only niggers do that."
I was drinking a milk shake.

In none of these instances did I stand up for myself.
In none of these instances did I punch their smug faces.
Because I have been conditioned to find it funny.
I have been taught to laugh when my family calls me “Oreo.”
Laugh when my brother’s friends ask if I’m adopted.
Laugh when people at church stare,
Wondering if I am my cousin’s teenage mother
Simply because we are the same color.
My transparency is not funny.
Too dark to really shine
Too white to be a part of the community;
A sister.
“I’m not really black” and “my black half-siblings don’t
Really count as family” but yet
My white half-brother once told me I "came out the wrong color."

I am a ghost,
Floating over a physical happiness my sheer hands will never be able to grasp.
I am a ghost,
Trapped between two worlds but never the best of both.
And the next time I am called an Oreo,
I will most likely laugh it off.
But if you listen closely,
You will hear the moans of a colorless girl
Mourning the life she will never get the chance to live.

Hello,

so, on the down side, there are too many arbitrary words. Some slightly off word choices or phrases (e.g. 'in none of these instances...' - sounds TOO prosaic for the rest of the poem). I think it all could be trimed a bit, made more concise.

On the up side, I really liked it, like it. It isn't all 'woe is me' and the humour that is hinted at as a mask in reality is a beautiful reveal in your poetry. The laughing 'with' the ones that hurt you is not self defense, but rather self harm, and this is the subject of the poem; however, the object of the poem is offensive and positive; the authors humour may have been caste as a shield, but they have most certainly turned it into a sword. Unfortunately, there is an element, of fatalism in it. That, and to continue the mataphore, the sword will always be held behind the back. And it is for this reason I cried when I read it through to the end. But on the other hand, this is only testament to the strength of the poem, because I have never felt like that... in fact, the end of the poem for me would read 'ah well, fuck 'em'... you made me feel something I have never felt before. Is there any higher praise for a poem?

[Deadrise]

Hello Mongolfiere,

Your poem is beautiful, thank you for submitting it.

I will say that I felt it was unnecessarily long, I think it would have more impact if you were to pull out some of the less important details and present it in a shortened version.

Take care,
John

[mongolfiere]

As a child,
I relied on being funny to make friends.
My caterpillar eyebrows and middle-parted hair
Made fitting in a ghost in the creaky house of insecurities;
A moving concept, but still dead.

My whole life,
I have felt like a ghost;
Stuck between two worlds and never really existing in either of them.
I was seventeen the first time someone called me a nigger.
We were on the school bus.
That same year, outside of my best friend’s house,
A boy whispered in my ear that "white girls do it better."
Then a boy in McDonald’s whispered in my ear that
"Only niggers do that."
I was drinking a milk shake.

In none of these instances did I stand up for myself.
In none of these instances did I punch their smug faces.
Because I have been conditioned to find it funny.
I have been taught to laugh when my family calls me “Oreo.”
Laugh when my brother’s friends ask if I’m adopted.
Laugh when people at church stare,
Wondering if I am my cousin’s teenage mother
Simply because we are the same color.
My transparency is not funny.
Too dark to really shine
Too white to be a part of the community;
A sister.
“I’m not really black” and “my black half-siblings don’t
Really count as family” but yet
My white half-brother once told me I "came out the wrong color."

I am a ghost,
Floating over a physical happiness my sheer hands will never be able to grasp.
I am a ghost,
Trapped between two worlds but never the best of both.
And the next time I am called an Oreo,
I will most likely laugh it off.
But if you listen closely,
You will hear the moans of a colorless girl
Mourning the life she will never get the chance to live.

Hello,

so, on the down side, there are too many arbitrary words. Some slightly off word choices or phrases (e.g. 'in none of these instances...' - sounds TOO prosaic for the rest of the poem). I think it all could be trimed a bit, made more concise.

On the up side, I really liked it, like it. It isn't all 'woe is me' and the humour that is hinted at as a mask in reality is a beautiful reveal in your poetry. The laughing 'with' the ones that hurt you is not self defense, but rather self harm, and this is the subject of the poem; however, the object of the poem is offensive and positive; the authors humour may have been caste as a shield, but they have most certainly turned it into a sword. Unfortunately, there is an element, of fatalism in it. That, and to continue the mataphore, the sword will always be held behind the back. And it is for this reason I cried when I read it through to the end. But on the other hand, this is only testament to the strength of the poem, because I have never felt like that... in fact, the end of the poem for me would read 'ah well, fuck 'em'... you made me feel something I have never felt before. Is there any higher praise for a poem?

Wow, thank you so much. I was so nervous about posting on here for the first time and I am overwhelmed by your kindness. Also thank you for your feed back! Again, I am very excited to rework this piece.

[indarican]

As a child,
I relied on being funny to make friends.
My caterpillar eyebrows and middle-parted hair
Made fitting in a ghost in the creaky house of insecurities;
A moving concept, but still dead.

My whole life,
I have felt like a ghost;
Stuck between two worlds and never really existing in either of them.
I was seventeen the first time someone called me a nigger.
We were on the school bus.
That same year, outside of my best friend’s house,
A boy whispered in my ear that "white girls do it better."
Then a boy in McDonald’s whispered in my ear that
"Only niggers do that."
I was drinking a milk shake.

In none of these instances did I stand up for myself.
In none of these instances did I punch their smug faces.
Because I have been conditioned to find it funny.
I have been taught to laugh when my family calls me “Oreo.”
Laugh when my brother’s friends ask if I’m adopted.
Laugh when people at church stare,
Wondering if I am my cousin’s teenage mother
Simply because we are the same color.
My transparency is not funny.
Too dark to really shine
Too white to be a part of the community;
A sister.
“I’m not really black” and “my black half-siblings don’t
Really count as family” but yet
My white half-brother once told me I "came out the wrong color."

I am a ghost,
Floating over a physical happiness my sheer hands will never be able to grasp.
I am a ghost,
Trapped between two worlds but never the best of both.
And the next time I am called an Oreo,
I will most likely laugh it off.
But if you listen closely,
You will hear the moans of a colorless girl
Mourning the life she will never get the chance to live.

I read the poem and found it to be more of a rant. I am no expert by any means but when I read this I couldn't really tell what the problem was. Were you upset because they were teasing you? were you upset because you didn't fight back.
I think the connection between yourself and how you feel (the ghost) is not fully touched upon. I'm trying to figure out why you feel like a ghost.
I did enjoy the story behind the words though. I know your next draft will be great!

[mongolfiere]

As a child,
I relied on being funny to make friends.
My caterpillar eyebrows and middle-parted hair
Made fitting in a ghost in the creaky house of insecurities;
A moving concept, but still dead.

My whole life,
I have felt like a ghost;
Stuck between two worlds and never really existing in either of them.
I was seventeen the first time someone called me a nigger.
We were on the school bus.
That same year, outside of my best friend’s house,
A boy whispered in my ear that "white girls do it better."
Then a boy in McDonald’s whispered in my ear that
"Only niggers do that."
I was drinking a milk shake.

In none of these instances did I stand up for myself.
In none of these instances did I punch their smug faces.
Because I have been conditioned to find it funny.
I have been taught to laugh when my family calls me “Oreo.”
Laugh when my brother’s friends ask if I’m adopted.
Laugh when people at church stare,
Wondering if I am my cousin’s teenage mother
Simply because we are the same color.
My transparency is not funny.
Too dark to really shine
Too white to be a part of the community;
A sister.
“I’m not really black” and “my black half-siblings don’t
Really count as family” but yet
My white half-brother once told me I "came out the wrong color."

I am a ghost,
Floating over a physical happiness my sheer hands will never be able to grasp.
I am a ghost,
Trapped between two worlds but never the best of both.
And the next time I am called an Oreo,
I will most likely laugh it off.
But if you listen closely,
You will hear the moans of a colorless girl
Mourning the life she will never get the chance to live.

This is very emotive and from the heart, the ghost metaphor seems to really hit a certain note that I like. When I read this, it almost sounds more to me like a spoken-word act or something of the sort - at least that's what I was imagining while reading it. Anyway, good job! You put into words what I know a lot of people go through and experience.

It's really funny that you say that because I often write my poems as I would read them or hear them in my head. Thank you for your feedback!