No Pablo Neruda
Essays on life, work and literatureArchive for Poems
The one we see in dreams
Christian wandered through the house below
as I descended stairs,
crowded on the steps I slipped
and dangled in the air -
with eyes wedged tight I trusted that
his arms would catch my fall
and felt my fingers slowly lift
as gravity took toll -
when my limbs felt due to crash his
arms embraced me tight,
I slid against his body as if I
were something light.
His fingertips caressed my breast
as I ended my descent -
I looked into his soft young face
and placed the weight of my lament.
He promised me he’d take me to
a place where we could meet -
Bella Blue or Bellavu or a restaurant
called Eat.
I felt at once the tender heart of
love crowd in and I wasr elieved
that from the mire of awful loss
I’d finally be reprieved.
Ghosts
In the dead of night, I woke to the sound of the rain,
it cooled and then it came – a soft, steady breath, so loud
I was sure the breath was from my room,
but no one but me stretched the covers and
gazed out into the midnight gloom.
What ghost was sleeping by my side that night ,
haunting the emptying corners of my house
but remaining out of sight?
And why breathe with the heavy cadence of sleep
as if that breath would some company keep?
Perhaps it was no ghost, but I who lifted from my clammy limbs
and against my will and physics invaded dreams.
Was it you who I heard giving soft breath
until it ceded away into somnolence or death?
Crap
All the facile pieces of my life – old cards, stockings
balled into fist size lumps and bras with twisted straps -
the cacophony of crap which I cling to as if my blood
pumped through the hand of a mug or clotted
in the dog eared pages of books which took the better part
of my monthly wages – these sentimental items
which will become the fetid dirt of a landfill and, one day,
nothing but a pale brown silt that catches on the breeze
or which lays to rest on an ocean, how does it cause
such emotion – my devotion to these goods borders
on neurotic, the chaotic surplus of my existence is
like an army of mute sentinels who I order about
and rely on to keep my arms tied to the invisible strings
which buoy me around and make me a living, breathing, thing.
Without them, I am stripped back, forced to negotiate
over what I truly love – the line, cut, the frill of lace,
one colour but not another on the contours of my face -
and within I am compelled to see how much of me has substance
and how much is dependent on material vanity.
Naked of all belongings and poor of a decorated nest
I seek out a calm contendness in simple things and
learn the art of having less.
Ouch
You said you’d come and get me – like, well,
you were going to save me from my personal hell.
What girl wouldn’t want that? The happy ending
that undoes all the hurt and pain she’s befriending.
I might have been a little fool, but my thoughts were good -
I thought, finally, I was loved and understood.
And yet, it disappeared in a disgusting mess – I
closed the door and bent over, crying at your desk -
and later you arrived, unannounced, at my place
and I pushed you out, with a cold look on my face.
If only you knew how much I blame myself for this,
but perhaps you do, because your barbs never miss.
I hope you enjoy your quilt and I hope things end here,
because it hurts me too much when you’re near.
Worry
These are the secrets we take down with us -
the things we think unclean or unsound,
we bury them beside our bones in the ground.
Shamed by our nature, we retire to
soil covered beds with the worries we bore
growing mould in our heads.
Too desperate to share the truths we despise
they turn into demons which feed on our lives.
Swallow
Books, guilt, wine -
these things which are mine.
Books, gilt, wine -
these things, perhaps, with time.
Just
It was not until I knew I’m leaving
that I realised I am grieving -
I look at photos to remind me
you’re not here, you are behind me.
But when I run, I feel you there,
and you were smiling when I cut my hair,
and when I wept that night in bed
I felt you there and I know you said
‘stop being indulgent and embrace your gifts’.
Yes, I know, you tough old bitch.
Stones
My design was made from rough hewn stone -
though I am not grown, I know
my mind is wayward, blue and airy
and my limbs are full of feeling -
my healing is a well worn book,
a lustful look, a romp beneath the covers
with a kind-hearted lover.
My solitude is dreams, in daytime
and in all the time between – I am never
here beside you, there are worlds
that I confide to.
About me all I see is an elegiac pace -
there is such still complacency
in every person’s face.
Why am I so different ?
So rough, so wild, so free?
What went wrong when I was born
that made this awkward me?
I will never be the small delight,
the lady with her folded hands
and no need to voice her hot demands.
I will be that spirit, there,
the one with flaming hair
whose mouth will move before her mind,
with social gracelessness, though not unkind.
I am a tempest of unworked stone -
feverish for company then fixedly alone.
And voluble, and worried too,then hopeful, then unsound -
tumbling, falling, rough worked stones
about me on the ground.
Virtuous
Filthy, sexy you in my head -
I picture the spread of your limbs on my bed.
As the day turns to dour and miserable light,
I am tight with the need for delight.
Sentiment
Every kiss unmet or velvet
silence in a crowded room,
cooled her heart too cold, too fast,
and dulled her hopes too soon.
That silly girl with foolish dreams
could cut a tragic pose
when yearning for a soft embrace
that failed to be disclosed.
But her heart arced high, and leapt
to sudden flights of whim
so that one day she left the man
who never let her in.
Hands wrapped about her heart
she now plans her quiet goals
and drips with lines of poetry
that celebrate joined souls.
The arcs of pleasure that she felt
at her determined gait
move toward a gentle love
that always was her fate.
Beautiful Girl
She doubts the flow of love
will ebb her way,
she looks away when cautious glances
meet her gaze,
and soothes herself
with praise
for Godliness and virtue.
She searches books
and music with a
doting fervour,
refusing to allow
her awkward look
and girlish gait to
unnerve her.
Those soft, brown eyes
like limpid pools
within her face,
and sloping brow
that comes natural
to her race,
are not adept
at beauty, nor
of beauty
inspiring,
there will be for her
no careful hand
or loving look,
admiring.
She is tender in her
wants and needs,
secreting them in places
where they cannot
adduce shame
from other, well-made
faces.
She buttons up her
soft white vest,
she slips on her
white sandals,
she says her prayers
with catching breaths
that lick the
light from candles.
She is barely
touched upon this world,
this half formed woman,
malformed girl,
and yet the heart
within her breast
protests and yearns
for love as well.
Fly
Against the perceived odds,
and in the face of convention,
I fly – bright winged and brilliant.
My robe is dust on the ground,
consumed by soil.
I will not spoil for spreading wide,
everything inside
is safe.
No, it is only my heart which,
no longer denied, risks wounds,
but those wounds are salved
by the meritorious friends
who reach toward my feet
as I ascend.
With time they too will
shed their robes -
all of us, as happy as children,
in brilliant blue-winged rows
will make a streak across the sky -
a startling image to the pedestrian’s eye.
Hate Poem
Oh ye fucking desk with your
stupid big, white screen
sucking me in like some
psychotic, alien laser beam,
and you ass faced old inbox,
thanks a lot for
ruining every fucking day -
I would be happier if
you weren’t in my way.
I hate you lamp and coffee
stained blotter,
I hate you pile of useless pens,
lunch detritus, and clutter.
I hate you itunes, who
keeps me calm when I should be irate -
is this my fate?
Is this boring goddamned mundanity my fate?
Oh blisteringly bad dim light
of the sun, under the electric globes
you are just about gone -
I weep for my filing, I weep
for the folders that keep piling up
and the negligible billable hours
which serve to discredit me
how I would edit thee
to fluff up my stuff ups
if I had no moral core.
No more! Vitamin pills and stagnant legs,
I am exploding in my head.
I think I am a body of post-it notes
and the coffee smell in my throat
- a bloated, ruinous, corporate whale
going stale like old food
for the company’s good.
Leave the Office
Searching for the one image
which will reconcile my doubts -
turns me from the window
and the soft, decided pout
of bad weather rainclouds -
my static limbs are loud
against the kind voice which calls
me to walk these bright lit halls
and peruse without care
avenues of art - my heart
will no doubt be lifted by the
wet looking paint and those images
sought will appear, delicate and faint.
Rekindling
We decided to meet in the shadowy side of a building beside
the thin silver smile of the river where we once sat in our youth when our hearts were still free -
you held out your hand and a note then unfurled in my old loopy script with the letters all curled
and you said ‘look at this – how your heart had such fire and you wrote to me daily of love and desire’.
I took up the note and I spread it out flat, saw my heart bleeding raw and I wondered at that -
at what time did I wrench the child from my gut, said ‘put on a suit because now you’re grown up’?
You saw past my lies and you laughed at my face, murmured ‘it’s not too late to get out of this place’ -
we ran through the streets with my hair streaming loose, and our chests were both pounding with the vigour of youth
and we didn’t stop running until the day’s final light gave a heartfelt little sigh and conceded to night.
It was then, only then, that you pulled me up close and I murmured my truths ‘it was you I loved most -
more than passion or fire or my meddlesome ways, it was you that I wanted to fill up my days.’
You pressed your lips here, at the base of my neck, and your hand touched my side and you made me all wet
and you murmured so quiet I couldn’t quite hear all the soft things you said but I know they were dear -
maybe ‘ love and just love and just love’ and then more ‘maybe you and just you and just you I adore.’
I thought I was trapped but I know I am free, the inviolate soul still alight inside me -
you gave me the note but I am the girl and I’ll burn like a flame in this dark little world.
My Child
I will win her back -
I will fight for her heart,
I will seduce her with courage
and with faith and with art.
I will be kind to her, always,
and she’ll be held in esteem.
I will eschew common sense
so she may follow her dreams.
And she will return,
this girl that I lost,
full of laughter and joy,
doing what she loves most.
Her fears will subdue,
as she will now know
that where her heart wanders
I will also go.
Nest
To live with less,
and make a life
from a few fine feathers
about my nest,
feels like it would be
a practised skill -
a product of steely determination
and resolute will.
But oh the reward
of no material ties to a place
so my home is within
and I’m never displaced.
Anniversary
Today is not the marker of a life that left the world
but the icon that remembers when the woman left the girl -
no candles lit or gilded totem is established by my door
nor anniversary song raised from voices which are hoarse.
We are fighting, step by step, and our markers are all new
we are guided by new reasons to live our whole lives through -
your sentiments, well meaning, are displaced and so unfounded
not for the lost or for the buried but the present and the grounded.
Celebrate our conquest of our most destructive grief,
and give thanks for what remains which can lend us such relief,
we are not broken nor disbanded nor mired in our past
but bereft of one good person who left her life too fast.
This anniversary, no, this day where I am woken
by remembrances of friends and kind words so purely spoken,
this day like every day, like all the days that are too come
are the days we pay remembrance to the battles we have won.
If we populate our calendar with memorials to death
the calendar’s destroyed and not a day is left -
no, give thanks to today like you would for a new birth
and celebrate with ceremony every day you have on earth.
Blown Apart
How a heart so torn apart
can wake up to this day -
while somewhere that’s so far away
lists an endless sea of loss
with currents pulled by mortal costs,
causes me such great distress
I long to return west.
The angle of my body
is dictated by my will,
which resists all fragility
and stands here stern and still.
A Lot Like Christmas
Though disruption tests my nerve
I re-make old traditions -
sentiment assists me to
defy my sad condition.
Hope helps me to brave the day
and faith in love will lend
new bonds to patchwork families
of marriages and friends.
Here and there I catch a glimpse
of beauty in my home
and by the smallest thought give thanks
that I am not alone.
I pray for life’s strange miracles
so comfort will invest
in my hard fought efforts
at remaking my old nest.
