My Poetry: Complete and Exact Oxymoronic Webs of Concrete Paradoxical Inexactitude

By Alexandra Andrianova

Paradox is generally understood as seemingly contradictory statements that may nonetheless be true. This exhibits inexplicable or contradictory aspects or it may be an assertion that is essentially self contradictory, though based on a valid deduction from acceptable premises.

In author Alexandra Andrianovas My Poetry: Complete and Exact Oxymoronic Webs of Concrete Paradoxical Inexactitude, a lot of paradoxes can be seen. An expression as much as an art, this book of poetry will capture readers attention because of its honesty.

Each of the lines of My Poetry: Complete and Exact Oxymoronic Webs of Concrete Paradoxical Inexactitude tends to approach from a slightly different angle, or with a slightly (at times abruptly) different tone. Her poems glean energy through the fruitful proximity of seemingly disparate things or, as she describes in her poems, the different experiences she had as an individual and her as a part of society.

With utmost honesty and candor, author Andrianova magnificently delivers a very uncommon type of poetry as she expresses herself, examines the world and the people in it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483698427

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Alexandra Andrianova.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 02/04/2014

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Table of Contents

A Feeling. A Broken Old Dame. And the Chance to Hurt a Fly.

E.T.A.: Change

Right Now (Na Na Na)

The Bar Scene: What I See.

Let’s Talk About

Arugula. No, Not Arugula.

What We Are Of.

None of Them Make Sense and the Ones That Make Most Make None.

Grave.

Specialty.

Work.

A Nouche.

Apples to Apologies.

FUCK YOU. (Rage of a Livid Lover)

Goose Poem.

Dream.

Onions.

Something ‘S’.

DON’T READ THE NUMBERS

Alternate Universe of Conversive Knowledge.

Imitating Walt Whitman: An Ode to Walt.

138

Okay.

And We Walked, Grandma.

Untitled.

What a Never. A Text. Oct. 12, 2012. 12:52 pm.

I Feel Like.

While Observing a Dust Fling in Air: How Do You Float Upwards You Strange Particle.

My Bipolar.

To The Life.

All The….

Butterflies: 7/21/2012.

Untitled Print.

Crazy Shit.

Memoir: RED.

A Word With Poetry.

I Hate My Father.

Meaning to Mean.

Shakespeare Poem.

How to Survive

008_a_reigun.jpg

TO MY MOM, WHO GAVE ME THIS.

TO TYLER, WHO FEELS IT AS MUCH AS I DO.

A LITTLE BIT TO YOU.

FOR MY GRANDMA, WHO GAVE ME MORE THAN SHE FATHOMS.

AND, OF COURSE, TO THE ENDOPLASMIC RETICULUM THAT LED ME TO BELIEVE I WAS INSANE.

A Feeling. A Broken Old Dame. And the Chance to Hurt a Fly.

Mansioned;

wearing tired eyes, overdone and creative, she dances in French

to something playing in her

head.

Silky, loose thirties fabric on a body

that somehow still stands

to hold on to something so hard

for no reason.

A bit of moldy cheese hanging from the deathy lower lip.

And an old parka strewn casually to the floor

as if with great expectations to tease [with] sexy someone not there.

Most of it left hugging corners,

unsaid and unfinished.

That feeling. Sad and scary in the way that makes you want to be scared.

E.T.A.: Change

I’ll turn on the dark.

What do you see?

There’s nothing to hold. Little to feel.

Strike up an army versus all that you know;

in the wake of your thoughts there’s no crumb for a crow.  

Voiceless and dumb, we sit holding hands

with our fears —

we are mastered;

encumbered

by selfish commands.

Led to the precipice of our desire,

let fall when we feel we sit on an empire

of toys and regrets and the things left unsaid