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<\/h5>\n<\/h5>\n“Beautiful and brutally honest, Mary Lambert’s poetry is a beacon to anyone who’s ever been knocked down–and picked themselves up again. In verse that deals with sexual assault, mental illness, and body acceptance, Ms. Lambert’s\u00a0Shame Is an Ocean I Swim Across\u00a0emerges as an important new voice in poetry, providing strength and resilience even in the darkest of times” (Goodreads.com<\/a>).<\/em><\/p>\n I have probably read this book 20 times since I purchased it in the spring of 2019. With selections like, “I Wish Powerful Men Would Stop Being F*ing Terrible,” “Tips for Fat Girls,” “Rape Poem,” “The Art of Shame,” and “I Know Girls,” Lambert has crafted this work of art that is moving, evocative, and empathetic. It is a mirror, a diary, a poetic reflection of women who are queer, fat, neurodiverse, and are, not only, survivors but lovers, as well as the radical notion that you can be both.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n It is a book about healing, but it is also a book about feeling. Lambert, very beautifully, tells women that it is okay to feel shame, to feel sad, to feel broken, to feel numb, to feel any and everything, but to feel something.\u00a0<\/p>\n The book is comprised of 5 chapters, but the first one is my favorite.<\/p>\n O N E<\/p>\n my body is terrifying,<\/p>\n idaho is a giant sh*thole,<\/p>\n and other wholesome stories.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n This chapter includes selections about body acceptance, sexual assault, trauma, and vulnerability. The collection begins with a piece entitled:<\/p>\n How I Learned to Love<\/em><\/p>\n When I was fifteen, I hated everything except for Weezer When I was five, my father molested me When I turned six, When I was twenty-five and my name was on the radio, I do not want to know any more When I met you,<\/strong> *my favorite lines are bolded<\/em><\/p>\n I remember the first time, I heard this poem. I had never heard anything like it, and it was absurd, but also, so beautiful. I didn’t know what to think or how to feel, but I remember the feeling of awe at how simplistic, yet raw this poem was written. I could feel the vulnerability seep from Lambert’s words\u2014 it enticed me, and I wanted to read more and more. I flipped through the pages hungrily, eating all of the words being fed to me, like they were my last meal. Lambert has this way of making you appreciate the morbidity and the authenticity of life. I shuddered at her words because I knew what they meant. It was like she could see inside my soul, and oh, what power writers and literary artists have to bestow this gift.<\/p>\n My second selection from this chapter is entitled:<\/p>\n The Art of Shame<\/em><\/p>\n My mother found a rabid dog<\/strong> *my favorite lines are bolded<\/em><\/p>\n This is one of those poems that Lambert also included on her album. On the album, it is entitled “Me, Museum<\/a>“. I strongly recommend listening to the spoken word version to fully experience its glory. This poem is one of my absolute favorite pieces by Lambert, next to “Tips for Fat Girls” and “Margaritas”. It is so powerful and beautifully written. It amazes me how Lambert told this entire story in such a poetic form. Many of her works do this, and it is one of my favorite aspects of her writing. It almost feels like prose, but somehow, still feels exactly like poetry, and I think that’s a unique style of writing.\u00a0<\/p>\n As much as I’d like to include all of my favorites from this collection, I simply cannot, but I do encourage you to purchase this book and experience the greatness yourself. I will, however, include some other examples of Lambert’s work below:<\/p>\nTips for reading:<\/h5>\n
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and maybe like two people. And cereal.
One time a boy grabbed me in the music room
and kissed my neck in front of everybody.
I did not want to be kissed, but I thought I was supposed<\/strong>
to want to be<\/strong> kissed. I did not know what to do.
And so I laughed.<\/strong>
I knew you were supposed to laugh after things like that
The world had taught me to dress up my trauma<\/strong>
in short skirts and secret bathroom crying,<\/strong>
to protect the fragility of boys at all costs<\/strong><\/p>\n
you become a strange human that way<\/strong>
You cannot whip yourself awake as a child
I should have been born a bird<\/strong><\/p>\n
I stopped talking.<\/p>\n
I asked people to write poems and send them to me
Maybe because I was starved of honest humanity<\/strong>
Half of the poems were about slit wrists<\/p>\n
about this brand of humanity.<\/strong>
All I know of love is hunger.<\/p>\n
I planted my heart into the heavy<\/strong>
earth.<\/strong> I was scared,
But you smiled back.
Thank God I was not born a bird.<\/strong><\/p>\n
And wanted to hug it<\/strong>
Wanted to give it all her glorious honeylove<\/strong>
Wanted to bathe her children in a two-parent household<\/strong>
But, the dog didn’t want kids
The dog would scream it in the hallway at four A.M
Reminding us as often as possible
The sheer art of it<\/strong>
How the monster could panic into my body<\/strong>
Sometimes I still hear it in the chambers of my heart<\/strong>
The way some glorious paintings stay with you<\/strong>
I am a museum<\/strong>
I must be a museum<\/strong>
When I was seven, the dog told me I was going to be a slut
No one came over to our house to play
The dog made me write, “I will flush the bathroom toilet” seventy-five times
I would’ve remembered to flush the toilet
But, I started blacking out around then
Forgetting basic things
Started praying that Oprah would save us all<\/strong>
I took snapshots with my memory camera<\/strong>
Hoping there would be justice for this kind of psycho warfare
The teachers at the daycare offered apology eyes and extra sequins<\/strong>
For the art project<\/strong>
The day after, the dog chased me around each room
Because I forgot where my other shoe was
When you are a child<\/strong>
And your mind is panicked like a fire alarm at all times<\/strong>
You lose the ability to remember simple things<\/strong>
I haven’t lost a personal item in months<\/strong>
Do not laugh when I say, ‘This is a victory’<\/strong>
Shame is an ocean I swim across<\/strong>
Sometimes, I call it drowning<\/strong>
Sometimes, I call it Moses<\/strong>
Sometimes, I say, “Good morning!” and sway to its murky durge<\/strong>
Sometimes, I win and cut off its crest with a pink machete<\/strong>
Sometimes, I want to f*ck it and<\/strong>
Marry it and kill it all at the same time<\/strong>
Sometimes, I spend my whole day apologizing on shame’s behalf<\/strong>
Sometimes, I think it must be an art form to feel this bad<\/strong>
Sometimes, I outrun all of its psycho history<\/strong>
Other times, I repeat the language from my childmouth<\/strong>
While beating my head against a wall<\/strong>
But all the time, I am forgiven<\/strong><\/p>\n