Happy New Year!
A couple quick updates to start off 2019.
Challenge of the Month
We're working our way through the entries for November and December's Challenge of the Month. Due to the holiday, giving every entry a fair read and determining a winner is taking a bit longer than anticipated. Keep an eye out for an winner announcement in the next couple of days, as well as January's prompt.
New Feature - Email Notifications
We've added email notifications. You'll now receive an email when somebody likes, reposts, or comments on one of your posts. You'll also receive a notification when somebody follows or messages you. If you don't want to receive email notifications, you can disable them here: https://theprose.com/settings/notifications. We're now working to restore functionality for mobile push notifications on iOS. Stay tuned!
We wish you all a fantastic 2019. Great things ahead.
Improvement: Under the Hood
We’ve made a lot of changes under the hood to improve the performance and reliability of the website. The site will now be much smarter about remembering and saving the pages you’ve recently viewed. In the short term, there may be a few bugs, so please let us know if you run into anything.
Everything you view will now be locally cached. For example, after publishing a post, you won’t have to wait for the post to load to view it. If you click a challenge in the challenge feed, it’ll load instantly. You should notice these effects across the site.
Clicking different messaging conversations and messaging multiple users at once should now be much faster and more responsive. A bug has also been fixed that prevented the messaging window from automatically scrolling as you send and receive messages.
Improvement: Feed Loading
When visiting new pages or new post feeds, the previous feed will no longer linger while the new feed loads. This caused some confusion when loading a new feed failed or took longer than usual.
Bug Fix: Facebook Share
The Facebook Share button now works as intended.
Bug Fix: Read Count
The read count indicator will no longer increment when editing a post.
Are there any other bugs, difficulties, or inconsistencies you’d like to see fixed? Let us know in the comments below.
Will probably think
That my earlier poems
Were/are my best.
Others will prefer
The newer stuff.
(Let’s face it,
Most people will never
Read any of it.)
I haven’t written for
These 50 years
So that some people
Or anyone really
Will read ALL
Of what I’ve written.
The best poems
By the greatest poets
In their entirety,
But rather for a single image
Impacting some reader
In that moment.
My writing has been
A life time spent
Dedicated to possibly
For some stranger.
That’s okay though,
I’ll take it.
Working for a living.
I was never meant to be an independent entity
I should have only ever stayed an idea in someone’s head
There’s no way I could ever be functional
So what’s the point in keeping my head
I’m sorry I wasn’t what you wanted me to be. I wish I could have been a better daughter.
In place of speech
I went to see Picasso
At the Modern
On a day we lost the sun.
We had to wait too long
So browsed the other galleries
To make time run quicker.
In a darkened room
Filled with power
Were monumental canvases
That played with colour.
One reminded me of
An opening storm
Behind the grey;
A lightning’s flicker.
While staring at the streaks
And lines and flakes
Looking for meaning
Or even form
In the abstract sweeps
I heard the soft scrape
Of the creator’s brush
In place of speech.
Slow Southern State
Dancing on the hardwood feeling good,
I snap my fingers. Listen.
At a horse track in Hot Springs my father bet all his life savings on a palomino Quarter Horse named Diamonds Sparkle.
When my grandfather peppered
his seed across the alluvial floodplain,
cotton cropped up like a southern snow
in September. My grandmother’s hand-stitched quilts lopped like gongs on the washing line. Blighted youth, blackspot
on roses, butterfly milkweed, I murmur
as I tumble ass-backwards—headlong,
my blithe youth behind me. I’ve come this far, barefoot and mean, out of the backwoods of the Mississippi Delta. Dipped in Southern drawl and mud-stained fervor—
a water splintered levee—it doesn’t ask why first. It has a rhythm to it,
a gentle pulsing—
like my grandmother’s spider-veined hands
in the biscuit dough. Her food, thickened
all her toothpick-limbed children,
and my grandfather, mellow like smooth corn whiskey. Under a setting sun,
his bourbon-boozed breath
came in small spurts.
Most folks talk too much,
he’d say, aiming chewing tobacco
into an old coke can.
He never murmured.
Sometimes he’d look
out across at the tar-tinged night
and talk nonsense with the invisible choir
My innocence clucks
like a chicken hauled off to the chopping block. Goodbye fruit flies cruising
the heirlooms. Goodbye pecan pie
and homemade vanilla bean.
Goodbye my cover of coots that grandmother fattened every morning with slivers of leftovers.
Where the word holler was both
a verb and a place—where ramshackle
little mud huts were made.
Some words are rickety doors creaking
open, and I walk on— through another lost summer,
a red-stained road
to an end. The cicadas still sing.
One of these days,
I’ll be gone.
standing in the sand
the tickleing warmth leaving
cold ocean shower
Happy fuckin’ holidays all...
Just the way I happen to see it.
The Freudian Heart
The only part of your mother that you own,
that your cheeks can still root for when hungry
for her flesh, that reminds you of those pureed
peas, those nostrils caked in cocaine, those
boning knives, your mother. Your mother, a boning knife,
cutting myofilaments, your empty plasma,
you leech, you blood-sucker. You can almost
feel your umbilical cord tether. She can’t see
your face, can’t understand your babble. Oh,
Anna O., is this how you speak to your mother,
spitting alien syllables even you can’t say twice?
Chimney sweeping ashes off your eyelids,
really seeing. Is this how you die?
Look, brain: see what stories we can twist
without anyone else’s tongue? How powerful
we are on our own. Isn’t it funny how
we can build gods and demons in one body
and kiss both of their foreheads goodnight?