Butterfly Cauldron
Monday, March 13, 2006
Because I can't handle thinking about the badness one more minute...
And this is threatening to turn into Zan's Abortion Blog! , I'm posting some more of my poetry. I'm pretty fond of it. Hopefully, anyone whose actually reading this will be too. Or at least it'll make you feel something besides absolute rage at all the shit our government is pulling.
Heresy
It was a false start,
this public display of wanting.
I should have known better, but I had no point
of comparison.
Yearning, I reached for your hand. . .
(I've touched you before. Surely, this is no different?)
My fingers feathers, your hands like water waved away
Leaving me anchorless.
(Can't I touch you when others can see?)
Your eyes deny me, question propriety.
I've tripped a hidden wire.
All Fallen Human Beings
I would be wise, Emily.
Wise enough it wouldn't matter what our Mothers said
Or if the electric bill was late
Or if I forgot to turn the lights off again.
I would be strong.
Strong enough that this cancer wouldn't eat at us,
That they wouldn't dare throw stones,
That I could carry your pain in my heart.
I would be kind for you.
Kind enough to forgive your Father,
To embrace his hatred,
To love him for you.
But I can't forget my Mother's sarcasm or your Mother's tears.
This cancer grows, invading your smile, our hope.
And my hands are powerless to hold it back.
I am fallen and broken,
Fractured by the hatred of your father, my brother,
The unknowns who pass us on the street.
Untitled 26
When I was a child,
You wanted me to plant roses for you.
"My little rose," you called me and pinched my cheeks.
But I preferred Black-Eyes Susans,
Wild and untamed, uncultivatable,
Growing in roadside ditches and under bridges.
Not limited,
Pillowed down in beds by rake and trowel,
Picked for china vases and public displays,
Then thrown away when they've bloomed too long.
There's no glory in being a rose.
(I've never been a gardener, Mother.)
Paradise Lost/Regained
I plunge my hands into controversy,
sinking in to my elbows.
(You sigh and hand me a towel. Do I never surprise you?)
I've lived my life here, turning over rocks,
looking for darkness.
(You've lived your life here, holding a candle for me.)
I'm a revolutionary figure,
in some sense.
(You'd say I was only restless.)
I spend my life denying
my weakness.
(You turn my weakness into your strength somehow.)
I envy you (and despise you) (and love you)
your serenity.
(You say you're rather have my courage and fearlessness.)
I don't believe in any great chain of being.
We are (only?) what we make ourselves.
(You say you think we are all divine similitudes.)
I am undone with wanting,
this separation cleaves me.
(You close the distance and heal me.)
Yeah -- okay, on second thought, maybe those weren't all so happy and chipper. Hrm. Well...at least it's not government-inspired rage, right?
Heresy
It was a false start,
this public display of wanting.
I should have known better, but I had no point
of comparison.
Yearning, I reached for your hand. . .
(I've touched you before. Surely, this is no different?)
My fingers feathers, your hands like water waved away
Leaving me anchorless.
(Can't I touch you when others can see?)
Your eyes deny me, question propriety.
I've tripped a hidden wire.
All Fallen Human Beings
I would be wise, Emily.
Wise enough it wouldn't matter what our Mothers said
Or if the electric bill was late
Or if I forgot to turn the lights off again.
I would be strong.
Strong enough that this cancer wouldn't eat at us,
That they wouldn't dare throw stones,
That I could carry your pain in my heart.
I would be kind for you.
Kind enough to forgive your Father,
To embrace his hatred,
To love him for you.
But I can't forget my Mother's sarcasm or your Mother's tears.
This cancer grows, invading your smile, our hope.
And my hands are powerless to hold it back.
I am fallen and broken,
Fractured by the hatred of your father, my brother,
The unknowns who pass us on the street.
Untitled 26
When I was a child,
You wanted me to plant roses for you.
"My little rose," you called me and pinched my cheeks.
But I preferred Black-Eyes Susans,
Wild and untamed, uncultivatable,
Growing in roadside ditches and under bridges.
Not limited,
Pillowed down in beds by rake and trowel,
Picked for china vases and public displays,
Then thrown away when they've bloomed too long.
There's no glory in being a rose.
(I've never been a gardener, Mother.)
Paradise Lost/Regained
I plunge my hands into controversy,
sinking in to my elbows.
(You sigh and hand me a towel. Do I never surprise you?)
I've lived my life here, turning over rocks,
looking for darkness.
(You've lived your life here, holding a candle for me.)
I'm a revolutionary figure,
in some sense.
(You'd say I was only restless.)
I spend my life denying
my weakness.
(You turn my weakness into your strength somehow.)
I envy you (and despise you) (and love you)
your serenity.
(You say you're rather have my courage and fearlessness.)
I don't believe in any great chain of being.
We are (only?) what we make ourselves.
(You say you think we are all divine similitudes.)
I am undone with wanting,
this separation cleaves me.
(You close the distance and heal me.)
Yeah -- okay, on second thought, maybe those weren't all so happy and chipper. Hrm. Well...at least it's not government-inspired rage, right?
Labels: poetry
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