suadade

waxing poetic, she emotes
for the you explicit
you in the never-was
you in the yet to be
you in the could have been
you in the conceptualization
of a stone heart that bleeds

“In the world you’re so far away I would reach out, and touch your heart, “ Tom Petty, Room at the Top

the clockwork of dogs

Oh winter with your long nights, wondrous; 

deep I could sleep, if not; 

for the clockwork of dogs.

the expectations of reciprocity

laughter ensued immense
and she walked away
enthused, yet
cursory words lacked depth

no quiet of the mind
came forth, no soul
he follows as she
drifts away

though with this one
she sees bits and buttons
holding parts in place
when he speaks
the lines years etched
at corners
of his eyes, lips
as they move to
speak his heart

she gives without
the expectations of reciprocity

“Once inside, you’re afraid they find nothing to hold on to,” Cowboy Junkies’ Ring on the Sill

supernova

she not no big bang
supernova
firework display

love for her?
it the slow start
of lightin’ fire

that burns
only for you

dreaming

I woke up dreaming
in the haze of a half-lit morning
your name was on my tongue
a desire to be known filling me

“I want you to notice...” Creep by Radiohead

two a.m.

a brief interlude
of wakefulness

a heart once heavy

tactile, her fingers

touch, everything

everywhere, overlong

savouring

on the fence ‘tween

a cacophony

of quiet, un-mindful

stimulation

overwhelming

and the cool, deep of a

white space

calmly she thrives,

through joy dipped

in sorrow, a heart

once heavy

freely gives

dans le bois or the ant queen

of streams

trickling

through woods

on the water

light ripples;

minuscule her realm

is deep

and far

———————————

de l'eau
qui coule

dans les bois

de l'eau ondule

sur la lumière;

minuscule son royaume

est profond

et loin

once, we were warriors

shat-

tered  reformed

re-

formed joy dip-

ped

in sorrow

she lives

in light

where they rest in dark

in youth we three fought

for our place in the world

to identify as self

to proclaim I am here

I exist

please love Me

amidst the others

and so we sought

once,

we were warriors

“The light was brighter...” High Hopes, Pink Floyd

when books beckoned

For HUMN 6341 SMU Fall 2018 - on the first memory of being read to...

At forty-eight, I am losing a lot of things, my hearing, my eyesight, glasses and car keys, and on some occasions, I think I may be losing my mind. It is a sure bet though, the older I get and the more I learn, the less I understand and the less I recollect. Supposedly the stuff of long-term memory, even the deep imprints riddled throughout my gray matter have over the years become scars hard fought to move past. This is a good thing - for the most part. I am truly happy with my imperfect self, with my imperfect life, although an imperfect mate would be nice. Sadly though, a large part of my story feels lost. Once I buried my brother, my sister, my mother, I’m unsure of the validity of my youth. Only when I stop to wonder why I am the way I am do mourn the loss of recollections. More often I mourn the loss of knowing I had family out in the world.  There is just so much left where I may have shut it away. Most of the intentional erasure has finally faded.

My youth was not sweet, my older sister saw to that as much as my mother, although she had her moments. At four and a half years older, my sister was beautiful, wild and unintentionally hell-bent on destroying anyone in her path in order to do what she pleased when she pleased. In a rare moment of sisterly grace, she taught me to cook. I was about nine or so and my love for food and it’s connection to family has never waned. I think perhaps she taught me to read, but this is less a memory as a guess based on practical elimination. Someone had to have taught me the alphabet; the syllabic utterance brought me to meaning and cognitive awareness. Someone had to, hadn’t they?  I’m told we had a nanny of sorts during my early years who doted on my sister, perhaps it was she who taught me to read while mother slept.

Recollections fade, but I still own those first few books, Puppies are Like That and Andrew Henry’s Meadow, primers that moved me quickly to chapters and worlds found on my father’s shelf; Five Little Peppers and How They Grew, Down Below Station, and To Kill a Mockingbird. Too young was I when Jem and Scout, terrified, ran through the dark and questions rose about life and living. Questions found later in other books on other shelves. Worn and tattered from too many readings though, Atticus holds steady in my box of gatherings from a past life. But still, who spurred me to read and how? My father’s the only one left to ask I suppose, but at seventy-four, he’s unreliable at best. Far from senility, we’re just two peas in a pod. He’s set aside more decades of recollections than I’ve been alive. We both seemed to have had the need to cope with what was in the same, similar way.

My mother, people liked her. She was the kindest, most giving woman imaginable unless you were her children or her first or second husband. My stepfather swore he’d never marry again after my mother, but Jude’s story would take a lifetime to write and bit more anguish than I’m prepared to relive or express. I would say she had her moments as well, I’d really like to, but she didn’t. I will say the one good thing my mother did for me was to instill a love for reading, albeit in a roundabout way. As children mimic adults, so I thought the escape into my room with a book for hours on end was part of life. And when she’d announce she was going to the library, it was the best thing in the world except for being a “get in the damn car or I’m leaving your ass at home” sort of thing. Scrawny, I could run and dodge and get places quick-like and was always there ready to go. No one really encouraged us to read, but no book was denied us. My brother and I would accumulate more than we could carry, but always the full number librarians would allow. Arms weighted heavy, we’d leave with books stacked up to our chins, tottering out in anticipation, ready to get home and retreat to our respective corners of the house.

I’m not sure who taught me the alphabet or taught me to read, or who may have even read aloud to me, but I have spent most of my life with my nose in a book, the smell of pages unturned for some time or the crispness of freshly printed ink a lure to fingers grazing their spine and cover with relish and a mind ready to go wherever they would take me.

weirdo

I can't stalk you
if you don't see me

see me,
please and thank you

"I want you to notice when I'm not around..." Creep, Radiohead

trying

I think

perhaps I asked

for a certain something

too young and too

often, desiring it too

much, and the Universe

laughed the way she does

ominously and gave

me a different path...

there’s poetry in that

my own self

sometimes I forget my own self
that I write, I’m a writer
of cold hard truths and lies
of fucking and sucking
limericks and poetry and
structured things
that form in the mouth
on my tongue
in the membrane

in the white noise
that never stills
even then
I write, I’m a writer

curse the Other

when sorrow slipped
and anger fled
to calm
in the never-was
she’s not quite sure

but the moments
fleeting
into sweet smiles
with four legs
amidst recollections
waning
leave her

wondering
desirous just
to be let in
to hold you while you weep
and curse the Other

in the white space

when she was
a girl
the white space
welcomed
like a lover
she fought
hard to overcome
a sense of self
defeating
her arch nemesis
Mother

Sister sought escape
in a man in a bottle
in a needle

Brother got away
to a space
where poetry never lives

and the littlest lost
in a walkabout
within
a body of bones
flesh, sinew
in a mind that never
calms
in a heart that
bleeds

the bomb

where words lead
her little mind a wanders...

to laughter
to intimacy
to companionship
to...

the tensile strength of flesh between teeth
in that moment
before it gives
and she pulls away

she tires

pretty for a day
but the day don’t deliver

all the shivers come to naught

heart beats and breathes shallow
lost, in a deep sigh, dust

she tires of false starts and lovers
never known
of words that lead to words

hours into days
she's mayhap
best on her own

Insert witty title here

Hope is a terrible thing never to know
and a fucking bastard all around...

I'm really actually a happy girl

I had not thought

love

love and grief

grief

I had not thought

in youth

the two entwined

I did not want

one

now I live

seeped in a sorrow

not quite hidden in the half light

pushing out

the joy to surface