‘Unspotted From the World’
My father had to tell me
at age four
that crepe paper is not candy.
I spat it out.
My mother had to tell me
at age nine
that she didn’t know.
I was shocked.
My sister had to tell me
at age twelve
the definition of “prostitute.”
I had wide eyes.
No one had to tell me
about God, and
no one did.
I decided for myself.
There is no one
clear answer to any question.
There is no one
pulling me heavenward
but my own hands.
poetry attack! all Denise Levertov.
“In Mind”
There’s in my mind a woman
of innocence, unadorned but
fair-featured and smelling of
apples or grass. She wears
a utopian smock or shift, her hair
is light brown and smooth, and she
is kind and very clean without
ostentation-
but she has
no imagination
And there’s a
turbulent moon-ridden girl
or old woman, or both,
dressed in opals and rags, feathers
and torn taffeta,
who knows strange songs
but she is not kind.
“Of Necessity”
Running before the storm, the older child
was beautiful, her gold hair flew about her,
her small plump legs twinkled amusingly.
It was the other needed help–
wailing, toiling along, a wisp
of misery. Sticky with jam,
her skin damp, her hands
spiders in my hair.
But carrying her, strangely I began
to cherish that discomfort.
The wind blew, the first large raindrops
were falling, the forest we were leaving
leaned darkly after us, waving
in threat or longing.
Quieted, my burden
held fast to me,
patiently trustful. Of necessity.
“The Mourner”
Instead of arms to hold you
I want longer limbs, vines,
to wrap you twofold, threefold.
I wrap you, I pick you up, I carry you,
your knees drawn up, your head bent,
your arms crossed on your breast.
You are heavy.
I walk, I walk.
You say nothing.
Onward. Hill and dale. Indoors.
Out again. You say nothing.
You grow smaller. I wrap you fourfold.
I show you all the wonders you showed me,
infinitesimal and immense.
You grow smaller, smaller,
and always heavier. Why will you not speak?
“Blue Africa”
As they roam over grassland
the elephants cast
a blue river of shadows.
Their ears flap as they listen.
One evening, caught
in icy wind, the traffic snarling,
I saw for one moment
their fluent stride, and heard
a quiet in Africa,
hum without menace.
They listened to sunlight,
and flowed,
onward, unhurried.
Remember,
they are there
now.
Each in turn
enters the river of blue.
“Shalom”
A man growing old is going
down the dark stairs.
He has been speaking of the Soul
tattooed with the Law.
Of dreams
burnt in the bone.
He looks up
to the friends who lean
out of light and wine
over the well of stairs.
They ask his pardon
for the dark they can’t help.
Starladen Babylon
buzzes in his blood, an ancient
pulse. The rivers
run out of Eden.
Before Adam
Adam blazes.
‘It’s alright,’ answers
the man going down.
‘It’s alright–there are many
avenues, many corridors of the soul
that are dark also.
Shalom.’
“The Stonecarver’s Poem”
Hand of man
hewed from
the mottled rock
almost touching
as Adam the hand of God
smallest inviolate
stone violet
(i would write a response poem to the following, but draw/collage for the above)
“‘…That Passeth All Understanding’”
An awe so quiet
I don’t know when it began.
A gratitude
had begun
to sing in me.
Was there
some moment
dividing
song from no song?
When does the dewfall begin?
When does the night
fold its arms over our hearts
to cherish them?
When is daybreak?
“Hypocrite Women” by Denise Levertov
Hypocrite women, how seldom we speak
of our own doubts, while dubiously
we mother man in his doubt!
And if at Mill Valley perched in the trees
the sweet rain drifting through western air
a white sweating bull of a poet told us
our cunts are ugly—why didn’t we
admit we have thought so too? (And
what shame? They are not for the eye!)
No, they are dark and wrinkled and hairy,
caves of the Moon … And when a
dark humming fills us, a
coldness towards life,
we are too much women to
own to such unwomanliness.
Whorishly with the psychopomp
we play and plead—and say
nothing of this later. And our dreams,
with what frivolity we have pared them
like toenails, clipped them like ends of
split hair.
…In your bones
in your memory
trust meI’m tucked inside each fresh paper page
you’ll write on.
Each hour you don’t see me, I’m still there.
How many things add up the same?
Your life, my life
the bucket, the sea.
-Naomi Shihab Nye
I am the innocent victim
of a rabid animal,
all claws, all teeth,
all rough, all bold,
full of madness and determined
to take control.
I am the lover, the beloved
of anybody’s body,
all lips, all skin,
all bold, all sweet,
full of madness and determined
to give release.
I am a lemon peel
or a sour-sugar sucker,
all bumps, all flavor,
all sweet, all harsh,
full of madness and determined
to be no sum, just parts.
I am a trespasser
on heavenly lands,
all whispers, all tiptoes,
all harsh, all hush,
full of madness and determined
to live in the lush.
I am a prisoner,
by my own request,
all ropes, all chains,
all hush, all loud,
full of madness and determined
to find the way out.
I am the high priestess
of every dark sin,
all senses, all chemicals,
all loud, all mean,
full of madness and determined
to make my own peace.
In this moment
I am everything,
full of madness and determined
to be free.
It’s hard to write a poem. It’s hard to try to be explicit and implicit and concise and elegant all at once. It is hard to express a sentiment in a way that appeals, that is open, that takes hold, when it is a sentiment so frequently rejected by so large a majority. How do I write a poem about how beautiful it is to let go, to be hurt and loved all at once? How do I make that appropriate for the literary magazine or entry into a contest or even for the eyes of my friends, my parents, my teachers? I love the feeling of nails in my skin. I love the feeling of teeth pressing in, deep enough to leave bitemarks that turn to bruises. I like to look at the marks, purple and blue and green and yellow and brown, and to touch them and feel. I like broken capillaries on my neck and scrapes on my stomach. But I don’t like them just for what they are… It’s about what they were. They were someone else’s body touching mine, determined to take control. They were my body fighting back then giving in, feeling freed by the adrenaline rush accompanying the pain. They are a souvenir of what was; what was me, finding peace in violence. Peace in violence, pleasure in pain, freedom in bondage…I am a study in the odd way that humans are so often built of contradictions. I am Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle’s upside-down house, with the chandelier on the floor like a campfire and the bottoms of staircases like slides. I am those sour-sugar coated candies, I suppose. All my senses act as if they were taste after eating those “miracle berries.” What’s bitter is sweet and what’s sweet is different. Pickles and lemons and bitter chocolate are what I crave, but in my skin these become fingernails and teeth and rope. I want to write a poem explaining this, the beauty of letting myself be harmed, because it is a release from the ordinary, but I don’t know how to explain it without so many words as this. When things hurt I fly from the ordinary to the extraordinary. The walls around my body are down and thus I am free. I am free and free is the only way to live, give me liberty or give me death. I’ll take society-scorned pain over protection and perfection any day, thank you. Good and bad are always intertwined, they need each other to exist, conjoined twins. Things that hurt HURT but the pain is the gateway to pleasure, to a place beyond pain. There is freedom and heaven to be found once you give in to your nervous system, let it take over and fill you with sensation and chemicals that save you from the world.
