Sierra DeMulder

Month

June 2013

3 posts

Jun 10, 2013657 notes
Jun 9, 201322 notes
Jun 2, 201373 notes
#twenty seven #thankful #birthday #gemini #puppy love

May 2013

12 posts

May 31, 201360,666 notes
May 27, 2013208,008 notes
Are you a youth poet interested in slam poetry? Check out this amazing summer camp! I'm one of the counselors! → gustavus.edu
May 21, 201343 notes
#sierra demulder #poetry slam #summer camp
May 20, 201339 notes
May 20, 201332 notes
For my final poetry porfolio, we had to write an "artistic statement" about our work. My professor said we could be as creative as we wanted so I wrote a satirical, self-deprecating foreword for my own collection. All in jest of course...happy finals!


 
To Whom It May Concern:

 
Sierra DeMulder’s collection of poetry (if I can even call it that—it is as sprawling as a teenage dream journal) is not a manuscript. It does not contain any semblance of narrative or structure. It is not, as one might hope, a complex, strategically crafted critique of social constructions like gender or the necessity of pants. Nay, my friend! This collection reeks of the pathetic spoils of juvenile ambition: a young writer “experimenting” with “language” like they are they “first” person to “ever” “write” “poetry” (please insert air quotes). It is as if she taped every mediocre poem she ever wrote to the wall her favorite local bar, took five shots (let’s be honest, probably just one) and drunkenly threw a handful of dull darts or wet chewing gum at the wall. Whatever stuck dictated the “chosen ones” for this collection, which is truly a collection in the sense that it is a pile of meaningless words stacked on top of each other like a horrible game of Jenga that just won’t end. Anyway. Allow me to expound upon the world of DeMulder of poems: small, quaint, but not in the-cute-old-woman-knitting way, more in the all-old-people-are-probably-at-least-a-little-homophobic way. DeMulder uses metaphor like the US government uses institutionalized systems of racism to marginalize minorities: too often. Her attempts to be funny have an uncanny resemblance to a puppy drowning. If her writing were a living arrangement, it would be a studio apartment. If her writing were a body of water, it would be not very deep. While reading this collection, I found myself thinking way too much about sandwiches. Also, I am still debating which would be more painful: reading another sappy poem about another of DeMulder’s exes or actually dating her—apparently, it always ends badly. In short, turn back now. In short, publish this collection and a pox upon your children.
  

Sincerely and with deepest regrets,
 

Sierra DeMulder


 

May 15, 2013119 notes
#sierra demulder #satire
Play
May 10, 2013247 notes
BOOST Tara Hardy → indiegogo.com

writebloody:

A health fundraiser for beloved poet Tara Hardy.

Our dear friend Tara Hardy is in need of our help. Since undergoing chemotherapy and enduring various visits to the hospital, she is left saddled with some very steep medical bills. By donating you’d help ease some of the financial burden Tara continues to face. If you’re unable to donate, you can read a sampling of her work and/or purchase Bring Down the Chandeliers from our online store. Tara is a dear member of our Write Bloody family and your ongoing support is very much appreciated. Please share this and repost. In the meantime, please keep her in your thoughts.

Cheers.

http://writebloody.com/?s=bring+down+the+chandeliers&post_type=product

This is important. She is important. Please give what you can.

May 8, 201347 notes
May 5, 2013107 notes
Play
May 5, 2013247 notes
May 3, 20136 notes

caughtabirdandletitgo:

Sierra Demulder favorited my tweet

image

I have to reblog because this gif is awesome and velociraptastic.

May 3, 201342 notes
MADE FOR BLOOD

I cannot tell if we are falling out of love
with each other, or, if this is the love
they warned us of: the love that doesn’t

trim its grievances into neat, pleasing
bushes but instead grows itself wild
as the jaguar—raised in captivity—will

realize one day it too is made for blood.
The love that will hack up the wet,
pink carcass of an argument months after

its neck was snapped and swallowed.
The petty love. The selfish love. The love
that will stop apologizing and start

admitting to Sundays spent masturbating
to the thought of other men’s fingers,
the way her head tilts back as she laughs.

- Sierra DeMulder

Apr 30, 2013276 notes
#30/30 #first draft #sierra demulder #poetry #poem

April 2013

44 posts

THANKSGIVING

The first time you took me to your mother’s

grave, we were full of turkey and gravy
and the kind of fruit salad made from Jello.

We were driving home, north, from Iowa—

the tired sigh of the Midwest—and I was
talking aimlessly of the day, of the desserts,

the small talk, lost in the importance

of my own thoughts. I did not expect you
to turn off the narrow road onto the dirt

driveway of the graveyard. The moment

my eyes registered this—the sagging trees,
the stone stumps like scattered teeth, the green

green grass—I started to weep because I knew

this was the moment I would meet your mother
or, at least, where you lost her for the final time,

back to the earth, the farmer’s wife

who bore land and harvest and six sons
all before that last, long winter.

- Sierra DeMulder

Apr 29, 201388 notes
#30/30 #poetry #poem #sierra demulder #first draft
Apr 29, 2013176 notes
“The mistakes I tend to make in my first draft are too many adjectives. When I type it up and look at it, I try to take out half the adjectives and a third of the self-pity.” —Sharon Olds, interviewed by Mike Pride for the Concord Monitor (via nps2013)
Apr 29, 2013251 notes
#truth #one of my favorite poets
THE LUCKY GROW OLD

One day, if we are lucky, we will look up
from our breakfast cereal and realize

our lives have slowly thinned and lengthened

like dough rolled under our fingers.
Time: that coiling snake. Time: the silent train.

We count the boxcars as it passes us by

and this makes us feel as though
we understand it. One day, if we are lucky,

our skin will emulate hammocks

and find new ways to sway and sag.
Our voices will dry up and sour like wells.

I hope you will still sing to me then.

I hope we find our way together
across this knotted forest of Time:

that strange witness. Time: the faceless

map—I know where I am going but
don’t know what it looks like. One day,

our love will shed its skin for the hundredth

time and look upon each other new
like children. Our lovemaking will be

a royal dance, a séance of the tired,

a ceremony of seasons, constantly reborn
only to wither in your arms.

- Sierra DeMulder

Apr 28, 2013135 notes
#30/30 #poetry #poem #sierra demulder #growing old #love
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