Tonight's Poet Corner: You Were My Princess
You Were My Princess
by Belinda Roddie
You were pure royalty, Carrie - you took
the chain that confined you and used it to
asphyxiate the angry gods in the sky. Just as
you asked, you drowned in moonlight, strangled
by your own bra. Your personal galaxy became
bigger and grander than the one we all lived
in. Stardust was in your blood, towering
nebulae in your brain, cosmic monuments to your
survival and your sass. You took the scepter
and the crown and bedazzled them with your own
jewels: Unconventional gems and stones that gave
you a different color than the rest, a different shine
than the rest. You didn't just endure the fires
of criticism and shame; you blew kisses at them, and
you waved them off with an extended middle finger
before off skipping toward the horizon with
your giddy dog drooling in your arms.
You were my princess, Carrie, at a time when
I realized that princesses were the only people
I could truly fall in love with. Your majesty
was only bolstered, not masked, by your slicing
words that cut the air better than a steak knife. You
were fireworks and supernovas and hurricanes
that awed us, struck us, blew us away. Sure, they didn't
last very long, but the imprint they left on our souls
lingers. And you reminded all the girls and women that
they could rock a storm as hard as you could, if not
harder. They read your postcards from the edge, and
they see the light emanating from each photograph.
So thank you,
your Highness, honorable General, honest Orator,
and above all, Master of Authenticity. For the energy
you leave behind is raw, and untamed, and prepared
to hit back when someone throws a punch. You won
a rebellion, but now the forces of darkness rise
like angry insects surviving the latest pesticide. We
can beat them back again, as long as we remember,
Carrie, that even though you have boarded a ship bound
for the great beyond, our only hope has not died just yet.
Rest in peace, Carrie Fisher.
by Belinda Roddie
You were pure royalty, Carrie - you took
the chain that confined you and used it to
asphyxiate the angry gods in the sky. Just as
you asked, you drowned in moonlight, strangled
by your own bra. Your personal galaxy became
bigger and grander than the one we all lived
in. Stardust was in your blood, towering
nebulae in your brain, cosmic monuments to your
survival and your sass. You took the scepter
and the crown and bedazzled them with your own
jewels: Unconventional gems and stones that gave
you a different color than the rest, a different shine
than the rest. You didn't just endure the fires
of criticism and shame; you blew kisses at them, and
you waved them off with an extended middle finger
before off skipping toward the horizon with
your giddy dog drooling in your arms.
You were my princess, Carrie, at a time when
I realized that princesses were the only people
I could truly fall in love with. Your majesty
was only bolstered, not masked, by your slicing
words that cut the air better than a steak knife. You
were fireworks and supernovas and hurricanes
that awed us, struck us, blew us away. Sure, they didn't
last very long, but the imprint they left on our souls
lingers. And you reminded all the girls and women that
they could rock a storm as hard as you could, if not
harder. They read your postcards from the edge, and
they see the light emanating from each photograph.
So thank you,
your Highness, honorable General, honest Orator,
and above all, Master of Authenticity. For the energy
you leave behind is raw, and untamed, and prepared
to hit back when someone throws a punch. You won
a rebellion, but now the forces of darkness rise
like angry insects surviving the latest pesticide. We
can beat them back again, as long as we remember,
Carrie, that even though you have boarded a ship bound
for the great beyond, our only hope has not died just yet.
Rest in peace, Carrie Fisher.
Carrie Fisher
October 21, 1956 - December 27, 2016
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