Because I do not hope to live again. by Anth
Though the sea moves
in formless origami
with no limit to its expressions
like a night unclear
despite it being star-less;
there is nothing written beneath the waves
that fold and clamber over each other
like blankets over blankets
on a child that is cold regardless.
In remembering only now
the first seven years of my life
that fell to amnesia,
because a child's reality
was turned inside out
like an umbrella left
upside down in the rain
collecting all these thoughts
my language was the rain in conversation with
the chalk drawings fading away
and I learned everything from watching clouds
and strangers that would sit next to me as a lost child
and ask me what I'm painting..
why the colours so dark..
because some colours will simply not wash away.
To see the world through my eyes
is to be withdrawn from it altogether.
If there are children who go
wildly tracing footsteps in the snow
I was the one who kept indoors
and watched from the window
tracing each snowflake
as it passed the streetlights glow.
Equally if there are
women who prefer
to be read poetry from a lover
I would trace only ghosts
down their back
leaving it for them to discover
and apply their own feelings
in the lack of my own
If I reached out to touch
a statue that resembled me
and the eyes were wet..
it's the closest I could get
to recognising my own feelings
I don't have the voice
or the emotion
to narrate my poetry to an audience.
I would rather they listened to the rain
and read my poems
when I am gone.
...Even the snow
wants to be over and done with
before people start to come out.
These poems are on pause
in the honey coloured iris
between
the red and green
of traffic lights.
They have their own gravity and laws
like the stars reflected
in the pool of an upturned umbrella.
The rain- an interrupted
opera..
the actress looking into your eyes
and for a moment
forgetting her lines
..these are the lines of those moments.
Mere as an eyelash on the moon.
A spiders leg in a child's palm. A black char lost
in the white fire of a snowdrift
unable to see where the poem
ends and the pavement lifts.
They have a shelf-life.
They wither if you touch them
like roses filmed in fast motion,
like photographs held to flame.
They sit silent as a knitted doll
on the back shelf
of a cluttered mind.
For me there is no avoiding them.
they trail after me as the debris
of a broken supernova
They are strung from my fingertips
like puppets whose strings I cannot cut
while they trip and fall over.
They are my connection to the stars
keeping me aligned,
they sense a way through the world
where I am emotionally blind.
they are so many snow-globes smashed
that they will never be the same
some flakes will be missing,
glass will be holding its breath
so not to break again.
The only way to be rid of them
is to fold them into origami birds
place them on your windowsill
and let them blow out back into the world.
Where they simply don't belong.
On Sunday, July 19, 2009, dying angel
(1076) wrote:
On Thursday, May 28, 2009, Bakkhus Unbound
(1056) wrote:
On Wednesday, March 25, 2009, Alanarchy
(1487) wrote:
On Sunday, March 15, 2009, saintedmad
(1420) wrote:
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