Roots
There is cracking and creaking
Beneath the molten metal
That is the solid cement.
Tons and tons of stones and water
Unclasp fingers and reach up
Leaden hands toward Helios.
People passing frown, chagrined;
Tamed path is now volcano,
With roiling earth within.
The earth beneath rises still,
Infant greens at the hill’s peak,
Bobbing small heads in the wind.
A cleft is now full cleavage,
Hidden secrets now in light.
Her leg poses, sunbathing.
From beside the shattered ground,
However artificial,
She grins through twisted bark.
Success.
(Source)
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Eventually
A prose poem, written for one of my core classes this week.
And then there was the time we lived with Great Aunt Louise after Momma ran off on another of her jaunts and never came back. Louise liked her Persian cats, the white and gray ones that left huge swatches of fur on the clothing they pulled down from hangers in the closet to use as bedding. Louise liked her peace and quiet, so that she might drown out any ambient noise with the roar of her daytime soaps. Louise liked her florals, so loud to the eyes and still so bright after thirty years or more, protected from the profusion of Persian cat hair by squeaky swatches of clear plastic. Louise disliked plums, yet she’d buy them in bulk– slightly bruised and overripe– to stew with sugar and give the jam to the neighbors, who’d line up around the block when that sweet smell arose. Louise disliked mayhem, which is why she banned us straightaway from running around her house, so carefully decorated with commemorative china plates on far too many lace-covered flat surfaces– worthless collector’s items so easily shattered. Louise despised having to have the obligatory clan photographs on display; they collected more dust than the picture plates, and they only served to remind her of the things her sisters managed to have and she did not. Over time, though, those photos took on familiar faces– mine, my brother’s, my sister’s. Over time, she’d smear plum jam over pieces of toast that were buttered and cut into little triangles for our afternoon snack and even join us for a bite or two. Over time, we grew more adept at using our extensive supply of lint rollers, so a cat’s worth of fur could be swiped away in minutes. Over time, the tables with their displays ceased to be obstacles, and their legs became the tall trunks of dense jungle trees that we, brave adventurers, would crawl through and explore, wary of the (long-haired and Persian) feral jungle cats that would often stray onto our paths. Over time, we didn’t hear the squeak of the plastic on the furniture, or the din of bad television. Over time, hand-painted school art projects would join the china plates– and these lopsided mother’s day gifts would always be artfully and prominently displayed in our home.
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Tags: Fiction, Poems, Poetry, Prose, Short Story, Writing
I began my grad program last week, and was asked to translate a poem.
I asked my mother for suggestions, and she suggested a beautiful piece called “Koocheh.” And so, I present my humble contribution to the translation world. While I know this is not completely accurate (nor is it wonderful), my intention was to capture as much of the essence and emotion of the poem while losing as little of the accuracy as possible.
“The Alley” – Fereydoon Moshiri
On a moonlit night, without you, I passed through that alley once again.
My whole body was an eye, searching after you–
my entire existence teemed with the hope of seeing you
and I became that crazed lover that I once was, yet again.
In the depths of my soul’s coffers, the secret places of my heart, the flower of your memory blossomed;
a hundred memories laughed in the garden.
The scent of a hundred memories wrapped about me;
I remembered those nights we passed through that alley together–
wings outstretched and in that treasured emptiness, we wandered,
and sat at the lip of that stream for hours.
All of the world’s secrets were spilled into your black eyes,
and I was captivated by your glances.
Smooth skies and peaceful night;
fortune smiling and time calmed.
Beams of moonlight poured into the water;
the tree branches reached hands up to the moon.
Night and meadows and flowers and rocks:
all were enraptured by the song of the nightingale.
I remembered the warning that you gave:
“Of this love, beware!
Now, observe this brook a bit:
water is a mirror of past love.
You, whose sight is on the gazes of the one you gaze upon–
wait for tomorrow, when your heart will be with another.
Until you forget this love, begone from here!”
Still, I told you, how can I renounce this love?
From your side I cannot leave, I cannot.
That first day, my heart fluttered with desire
and I sat, a dove, upon your roof.
You pitched stones at me.
I did not startle, did not flee.
Still, I said that
you are the hunter, I the deer seeking to be captured by you, to surrender to you.
I searched and searched all places;
I do not know how to avoid this love.
I cannot journey from your side, I cannot.
Tears fell from a branch;
an airborne owl bitterly moaned.
Tears quivered in your eyes; the moon beamed with love for you.
I remember that I no longer heard answers from you.
In twilight, nightfall’s skirts, I held myself, and did not flee, did not startle.
Those nights and other nights, too, have passed in utter darkness.
You no longer partook of my love nor told me
that you would never pass through that alley again.
Without you, though, what emotions I must wander with through this alley!
*Original text image linked to source
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Tags: Poems, Poetry, Writing
Prayer for A Bird of Prey
small hawk steel frame
lesser than your peers– you’re not –never lesser than they
flying swifter, dodging the rain; hid away from hurt and pain.
live unassumingly
safe calm
Photo respectfully drawn from here.
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Whatif Game
If only I could tell you I love you.
I wish I meant it with my whole heart.
If only my stomach would clench and roll in the best possible way when you kissed me;
If only your sleeping, guileless, unguarded face inches from mine wasn’t a gilded cage, inspiring guilt for my lack of gratitude.
If only those words hadn’t become cliche– “it’s not you, it’s me–”
I wish no one ever used them unless they rang with pregnant truth.
If only I wasn’t vampiric, draining your affection to sustain myself.
If only– if only– fairytales existed, and you came in on white horse with polished chest gleaming under a perfect sun– not too hot, not too cold…
I wish you understood when I wished to be touched, and when solitude is imperative.
If only your heart aligned with my own.
If only I didn’t doubt my own future fidelity by your side in the way I never need question yours.
If only you made me feel safe.
And if only, my dear, you weren’t so perfect of a person, it might then be easier to tell you that your perfection will only mesh perfectly with someone perfectly different than I;
If only you were ideal for me.
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Immutable Transience
I was awake in a monarch cloud of radiant wings, beating against the fine rivulets of air too weak to be noticed on indifferent bare skin.
I dreamt in the riot of feathers and sins that fluttered in my stomach and chest, drumming against bones and sinew.
My world flooded with the colors heretofore nonexistent, the shades of gray previously unnoticed vanishing in a sudden onslaught of fire, breath, and sweat.
This moment is eternity and an instant, hot love mixed with ice and understanding, pure joy at its most intense, contentment so profound it brings into stunning clarity the sword hanging by thread above the crown.
What is invisible is sweeter than honeyed pears, truffles, ambrosia; what is physical is savory like skin.
This moment is fleeting and forever. Come and be overcome.
Photo respectfully drawn from here.
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A la gare
There was an evening much like this, two years back, that I sat waiting in St. Pancras. I don’t quite remember what I was there for; either I was expected at the home of a family I had grown quite close to, or I was waiting for the son of said family to return to our common tromping grounds. It doesn’t really matter now, though, does it?
I enjoyed that night, though, from what I remember; I ate at one of the little, “express” food stops designed for the people that wove their way around me in stilettos or dress shoes, dragging their wheeled designer bags behind them. I bought flowers for myself– cheerful, hot Gerbera daisies– from either that tiny M&S or some kiosk-florist who provided that last-minute gift for travelers.
I eavesdropped as best I could on the French people who stepped off of the Eurostar and tried to peg their regional accents. I bought hot chocolate with whipped cream from Starbucks, right around the corner from that salad place, and warmed perpetually frozen fingers on the paper cup.
When the times on the lit up board indicated the trains were late, I wandered aimlessly around shops that didn’t seem quite appropriate for a train terminal– Paperchase, or the mini Hamley’s (I think it was), or a clothing boutique. I bought chocolates as well– terribly expensive things, though worth every penny– from the chocolatier. I enjoyed them for weeks after.
Already it felt quite late at night– though it was probably only early evening, considering that the sun set in winter far too soon– but the building was modern, well-lit, and pleasant (I hate to say it, but unlike Waterloo, which I had become so familiarly acquainted with). The stream of people had only lessened somewhat, and as night grew deeper, their paces grew faster to escape icy winds that trickled through from the upper level and the automatic glass doors. During the day, you could see the sky through the glass ceiling, but now it was black. I wished stars were visible while I waited.
I bought a book, curled up on a bench, and read with a refreshed cup of cocoa. My flowers were wilting, but it didn’t really matter; they had done their part in cheering me.
Finally, when the East Midlands train pulled in to the upper level (unusual occurrence, that), I was glad– whether to be going or greeting, I don’t know.
These bits of that night still remain so clear in my thoughts, a crystalline memory that reminds me day to day that loneliness and being alone are not the same. And, on an evening much like that one, I’m eating chocolates and feeling (dare I say it?) content.
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Tags: Journal, Prose, Writing
Tuck Your Chin
He tried to be a good father, she supposed, but she never truly felt exceptional around him, and it carried into daily life. She was your average brown-haired, brown-eyed, not-too-short-or-tall kind of gal. She was not thin, she was not fat, she was not memorable. He unwittingly made sure that she felt that way– never made a huge deal about her accomplishments and never made it past a mild sort of affection into a deep parent-child bond. He was easily distracted, making her crave his approval, affection, and attention.
Daddy taught her that everyone leaves, eventually. It proved true time and time again; physical absence and emotional absence became the trend of life. It was a shame, really, that she learned to keep everyone at arms length and promote that self-fulfilling prophecy that fueled her abandonment issues further.
Every promise ever made to be involved in her life was abandoned, and she learned to rely on no one but herself.
It’s become a perverse story of strength, hasn’t it? If only it could have been achieved another way…
She read somewhere, once, in some fantasy book of her youth, a line that has held true through the years. It went something like this: “Tuck your chin; you’re going to get hurt, so you might as well expect it and minimize the blow.”
You’re going to get hurt.
Minimize it.
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Tags: Prose, Writing
Tea Ceremony
This was a new age and a new world, but tradition remained rigid amongst a certain sect.
This was immediately apparent to the girl the day her mother received a telephone call. There was no way to say no outright, the elder woman told her, without being rude and disgracing herself and the family.
Young, modern, and trapped in the archaic structures of a society lost in the dust of revolution, she brought in the chai for the suitors when they came to call.
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Tags: Prose, Writing
Flaw
Lilith, by John Collier
There was a painter long ago; he was a man renowned for his affection for and strict adherence to the classically beautiful figures of those idyllic times when everything was gilded and soft; no ugliness or strife was ever captured on canvas. No plague existed in these supple, peach-toned nudes, and their golden hairs were always twined with pearls.
He had many oil daughters, but one was the apple of his eye.
His fingers would trace the layers of paint that belied smooth skin, much like a lover’s caress. The firelit panes of her back would falsely advertise warmth and satin, and she would be cold as the studio’s oft-neglected fire.
She would tempt him nightly, promising perfection that could be found nowhere but on canvas. She’d smile secretively, seductively, taunting him; if he was not God, why, then, could he create perfection where the omnipotent could not? If he could make a subject so flawless, must she, then, be a product of the Lord?
Thus, ever-questioning, he passed his days, married to oil and varnish and ruby-red lips only found in two dimensions, unable to kiss his own, his own little, lesser Pygmalion.
And as an old man, as she watched over his bed when he drew his last breath, he finally understood.
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