"I am a sixteen year old aspiring writer living in California. I love reading Sappho and Emily Dickinson poetry, and writing in the sun with my cat. My favorite food is chocolate and I write letters to my (reluctant) friends in my free time."
When asked about her influences and aspirations for being a writer, Lulu states:
"I write because it's a way to express myself in a way that I can control, and it creates bonds with people that I wouldn't have connected with before. It's also fun for me to relax and create my own worlds...I write mostly based on my personal experiences and the world around me, but I also like to create characters...I am also heavily influenced by places, especially cities like San Francisco and New York. I also love food, so I incorporate that as much as I can. Sometimes I write with historical themes in my poetry, or essays about food history, which interests me to no end."
"May I write words more naked than flesh." - Sappho
DREAMLAND
A pink cylinder is suspended in the sky.
It is made from the woven metal of playground structures and lunch tables.
It is hollow inside, both ends are open to the air.
A girl sits inside, her body curved to match the circle. She is afraid to look down, she only sees bits of bright blue cut into diamonds by the pink.
The clouds change with the sky. When the blue expanse is filled with cotton balls, the girl climbs.
She sits on top of the cylinder now, gripping the familiar diamond shapes. She looks up, and she can see the sun and the birds and the wisps of white.
She looks down, and she can see a patchwork of roads, fields, mountains, and rivers.
She can feel the wind through her hair, the sunshine on her skin.
A gigantic cloud moves underneath the cylinder. It is a fairytale cloud, a jack in the bean stock, scoop of vanilla ice cream, matzo ball soup kind of cloud.
She jumps, and it catches her. The pink cylinder follows, humming slightly, trailing behind the girl in the great blue sky.
DICTIONARY
“Definitions belong to the definers, not the defined” -- Toni Morrison, Beloved
the unbridled masses, hills rolling, the shards of mountain that grow and shrink, the volcanoes who burst and bubble, small trees that become giants; the low purr of the earth that rises and falls as she breathes
the oceans that boil and freeze and clash together, salted tears and sweet nectar that swirl in the depths of the seas, the waves foaming over the sand who play tag with your feet
the universe which thins out at the edges like crepe batter, sprinkled with sugared stars and droplets of lemon fire, that which folds and tears, like delicate silk stretched between planets, or billowing curtains studded with moons
the people who are perched on every mountain and tucked into every crevice, those who run, live, die, sing, laugh, touch, love, and move
the deer that bound, the birds that fly, the cats that prowl and the fish that swim
the plants who grow slowly but surely, yes, the ones that live on your windowsill, or the ones who lay trodden in your garden
the smallest fly and the largest whale, the farthest galaxy and the nearest town
they all live inside these words, defined, laid out, perfected in neatly-lettered pages, volumes that could fit in the palm of your hand, scriptures that weigh down your grandfather's shelf
the dictionaries of the world contain multitudes.
RAIN, FREESTYLE
Plink
plop
,
drop
drip
,
pop
pip
,
tappity
tap
tip
;
such
is
the
sound
of rain
upon
your
little house
or
city apartment
or
villa
or
castle
or
wherever
your
head
is
.
MORE FROM LULU KIMMEL-MINER
Instagram: @luluwrites111
Personal Blog: luluwrites.live
