Amanezco

Slow Saturday morning sun-limbs
stretch in gold    
sprawling smoothly
over ridges of tousled sheets
and dense mounds of me.

Soft skimming sun-fingers
slide sweetly
through lumps of greasy hair
and spaces between lazy eyelashes.

Amber dew-sap sun drips
from on the wall above the dresser
into neglected water glasses
spilling over a half dozen equally neglected books
each with tiny corners of pages bent in upon themselves
like little promises saying,

"Lovely words, I will return to admire you,
underline you, rewrite you in a letter to a friend.
Lovely words I will not forget you."

 

El Despertar/The Awakening por Alejandra Pizarnik

Señor

La jaula se ha vuelto pájaro

y se ha volado

y mi corazón esta loco

porque aúlla a la muerte

y sonríe detrás del viento

a mis delirios

Que hare con el miedo

Que hare con el miedo

Ya no baila la luz en mi sonrisa

ni las estaciones queman palomas en mis ideas

Mis manos se han desnudado

y se han ido donde la muerte

enseña a vivir a los muertos

Señor

El aire me castiga el ser

Detrás del aire hay monstruos

que beben de mi sangre

Es el desastre

Es la hora del vacío no vacío

Es el instante de poner cerrojo a los labios oir a los condenados gritar

ahorcados en la nada.

Señor

Tengo veinte años 

También mis ojos tienen veinte años

y sin embargo no dicen nada

Señor

He consumado mi vida en un instante

La ultima inocencia estallo

Ahora es nunca o jamas

o simplemente fue

Como no me suicide frente a un espejo

y desaparezco para reaparecer en el mar

donde un gran barco me esperaría

con las luces encendidas?

Como no me extraigo las venas

y hago con ellas una escala

para huir al orto lado de la noche?

El principio ha dado a luz el final

Todo continuara igual

Las sonrisas gastadas

El intres interesado

Las gesticulaciones que remedan amor

Todo continuara igual

Pero mis brazos insisten en abrazar el mundo

porque aun no les enseñaron

que ya es demasiado tarde

Señor

Arroja los féretros de mi sangre

Recuerdo mi niñez

cuando yo era una anciana

las flores morían en mis manos

porque la danza salvaje de la alegria

les destruía el corazón

Recuerdo las negras mañanas del sol

cuando era niña

es decir ayer

es decir siglos

Señor

La jaula se ha vuelto pájaro

y ha devorado mis esperanzas

Señor

La jaula se ha vuelto pájaro

Qué haré con el miedo

The Awakening

Lord

The cage has become a bird

and has flown away

and my heart is crazy

because it howls at death

and smiles behind the wind

at my ravings

What will I do with my fear

What will I do with my fear

Light no longer dances in my smile

nor do seasons burn doves in my ideas

My Hands have undresses

and gone where death

teaches the dead to live

lord

The air punishes my being

Behind the wind there are monsters

that drink my blood

It is a disaster

It is the hour of emptiness not empty

It is the moment to bolt the lips closed

to hear the condemned ones scream

to contemplate each one of my names

hung in the nothingness

Lord

I am twenty years old

My eyes are also twenty years old

Yet they say nothing

Lord

I have consumed my life in an instant

The last innocence shattered

Now it is never or nevermore

or it simply left

How is it that I did not kill myself in front of a mirror

or disappear to reappear in the sea

where a great ship would await me

with its lights burning?

How is it that I did not pull out my veins

and build a ladder with them

to flee to the other side of the night?

The beginning has given birth to the end

Everything will continue like this

The spent smiles

The interesting interest

The gesticulations that mimic love

Everything will continue like this

But my arms insist on embracing the world

because they still haven't been taught

and it's already too late

Lord

Throw the coffins out of my blood

I remember my childhood

when I was an old woman

The flowers would die in my hands

because the savage dance of joy

destroyed their hearts

I remember the black mornings of sun

when I was a child

which is to say yesterday

which is to say centuries ago

Lord

The cage has become a bird

and has devoured my hopes

Lord

The cage has become a bird

What will I do with my fear

Erotic Spring

Mornings wet with waiting
with longing
wet with yearning
to keep blooming
to bring blooming
to bloom to burst in the heat.

Wet with wanting to burst.

Dripping afternoons
sap of my spring
waning sun shows pearly
droplets drizzle down
my dandelion leafs.

Falling night reveals my
saltwater blue skies
raining.

Moisture beacons
welcomes
warrants entry
into my blooming
my bursting
body
come inside
out
burst with me.

Louise Erdrich

I'm usually not one for inspirational quotes but a friend shared this with me and I think it is beautiful. It starts off as a predictable motivational number but the ending analogy, I think, is quite profound.

"Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on this earth. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you have tasted as many as you could."
                                                                                                                          -Louise Erdrich

Might Be a Country Song

I've got houseplants and cast-iron cookware.
I've got a heavy bookshelf and a soft velvet sitting chair.

I can no longer fit my belongings in the back of my car.
And if I could, I don't think I'd get very far.

I've learned that I've got some needs of my own
Needs I'm not fit to run away from anymore.
And if I was, I don't think I'd get very far.

Since I can no longer give everything away,
I suppose it'd be best to stay.

I've got a bedroom with large windows.
A room for thinking or refusing to think.
I've got houseplants and a good deal of what I need.

Surely there is greener grass beyond the next stretch of highway.
But since I can no longer give everything away,
I suppose it'd be best to stay.

I've got houseplants and a rooting feeling.
Soft velvet that begs me to sit.
Cast-iron weighing me down.
So I guess I'll be seeing what it's like to stick around.

Angry Like A Child

It comes on warm and strong.

Rising up from the toes
it boils in the belly
blooming
into a firmament of fierceness.

It's a punch-a-hole-in-the-sky 

                                                        feeling.

It's a throw-the-coffee-cup-against-the-wall 

                                                                      feeling.

It's a everything-is-wrong-and-I-have-been-cheated
                                                                                     feeling.

It's a scream-in-the-middle-of-the-woods-so-nobody-can-hear
                                                                                                 feeling.

And it's a scream-in-the-middle-of-the-subway-car-so-everyone-can-hear
                                                                                                                feeling.

Its the feeling that I should have been loved better.

That my child should have been born.

Its a feeling that my hands should have been held

and not clenched into fists.

It's a feeling of having crossed
too many streets
alone. 

Sharon Venezio

Poem of Undoing

How many kinds of undoing are there?

The word love in the back of my throat,

mouth ajar, as I don't say your name.

Is unhappiness a kind of undoing?

The heart's fault line, a fracture

in the space between two bodies.

My heart is a thirsty artichoke,

each petal a different version of undoing.

If I knock three times, will you reappear?

Ellen Goldburg

No One Knows How Far

the breath goes, though surely nothing stops the air
we breathe out.  It must blend in with all the air there is.
How could it leave? Where would it go? No--

even the last breath doesn’t die.  It keeps
pinballing its nosy molecules off others,
bopping along, so we’re breathing someone’s  

discarded breath, breath of Icelandic poppy leaf,
of feral cat, of a woman who screamed in Indonesia
and a batterer who finally sobbed.  I like to think   

of breaths carried on the wind falling for each other
like on a cruise for singles who nudge shoulders with strangers
as they crowd the rail when a humpback blows  

then shout in unison when she and her black
mirror-backed calf breech.  I like to think of each breath
that each of us, dead and alive, exhales from birth

bouncing its way around the globe and coming, generations
later, out of other people’s mouths as opera arias and
Viva La Huelga! and I miss you—don’t go.

Fall Feelings

I'm going out to the woods for a while
out into the solitary sound
of autumn-under-foot.

Going down deep for a time
to remember what the womb was like.

Until the silent snow falls.
Until the quiet snow is done falling.

Olive the Dog

Upright and altert.

One swift nose twitch in each cardinal direction.
Compass of olfaction.

Ears as pitched tents
on either side
of the fluffy
and deceivingly friendly
face of a huntress.

Olive the dog.
Predator of morning songbirds
and plump chipmunks.

This, Your Defiant Day

There are days when the work must be left undone;
the papers unwrit, the envelopes unlicked.

There are days when the dishes must stay in the sink;
the rice left to stick to the pot's bottom.

There are days when you need to put on a flannel dress and lace-up boots and go
without music, without route.

There are days the calendar must be left unread
and the quilt must stay sprawled about the bed
as you left it when waking for
this, your defiant day.

These are the days for dancing in daylight
and dreaming in waking-life.

It is a day for boots laced tight
running
away.

Sand, Salt and Stones

I keep my mouth shut

cause I am so far

from the places and spaces

I know 

that

If I spoke

I wouldn't know

where                    where              where

           to begin                 to go                 to come from

How did I come?

From the desert 

to the city;

from the mountain 

to the city;

from the ocean

to the city.

From where do I come?

The dry sand

cold stone

salt.

Drifting

always            d r  i   f    t    ing            s i f     t   ing

salt                                                               from the             s e a

stones                                                                       from the                 s a n d.

I am so far from the places and spaces I know.

This city took me

takes me

in

makes me

wonder

Am I wrapped or trapped?

In the deep fibers of history and hustle

I keep my mouth shut

because these spaces and places 

are so far 

from what I know

And I do not know 

how to bring them

here.

speak them

here.

Salt.

Mountain.

Stone.

Desert.

Sand.

Sea.

I wander.

Am I wrapped or trapped?

Half in Halves

You offered to drive and I let you.
I half hated myself for it.

You offered a beer and time to chat.
I half wanted to drive drowsily
to the drafty house I was staying at
alone.

I agreed to a beer with you.
I half wanted to never speak to you again.

You suggested, instead, that I come to your place...
so you could visit with me while preparing your lunch for the next day.
So practical.

I half wanted to tell you to go fuck yourself.

We assembled the bike rack on the back of my car
as we had done about a hundred times before.

I half wanted to tell you that you did it wrong;
the straps weren't tight enough.

I half wanted to let your bike fall off,
halfway down Baltimore Avenue
and watch it get crushed under the trolley.

But I quietly tightened the straps instead.

We got in the car and I told you I didn't want to go to your house.
I half wanted to reach over and touch the soft, sunned skin of your arm.

Instead I told you we had nothing to talk about.

We drove on and I wondered why
we keep seeing each
other.

I told you I would come over for tea.
I half wanted to jump out the car window.

We sat in the dimly lit kitchen of your crunchy communal house
while you chopped sweet potatoes and I chewed the mint leaves from my tea.

It was midnight.
You were making soup.

It was midnight.
I was drinking tea
in your kitchen
watching you make soup.

I wasn't sure which of us was more absurd.

We sat on the couch and spoke about the people we felt ourselves becoming.
The teacup was empty and the soup was delicious.
I half noticed your eyes half closing.

It was time to go.

I asked you to walk me to my car.
I was half hobbling from the blisters on my feet.
You offered me a piggyback ride.
I half believed you wouldn't make it halfway down the block.

But you carried me the whole way.

We held each other in goodbye.
I half wanted to hold you like that forever.
And I was half happy to let you go.

Hour by Christian Hawkey

My sixth sensurround

is down, my second skin

the skin I'm stepping

into: I lick

a new finger & hold it up

to the wind: O my beloved

what. O

my beloved what. O my

beloved shovel-nosed mole

can I clean the soil

from your black, sightless eyes

can I massage with fine oils

your tiny, webbed feet

are you tired of running

into drainpipes

does your mouth foam

approaching power lines

are your tunnels collapsing

do you have work to do

does the dirt breathe

do you breath the air

between the dirt

are your lungs

the size of earlobes

do you hear me

in the tunnel next to you

have you cut your nose

on a shard of glass

have you excavated

the severed, blue leg

of Spider-Man

did you pause to admire

his red booties

are your tunnels collapsing

do you have work to do

am I keeping you

am I keeping you

 

Mazunte

Hay que pasar el tiempo
como pasan las horas
bien despacio,
con el
e  s  p  a  c  i  o
de los minutos
e  s  t  i  r  a   d  o  s
por los segundos.

Aqui donde el sol hace el amor con el mar
se puede sentir
el aire pesado
con la humidad y el olor de la copulacion.

Hay que pasar el tiempo
como pasan las olas
por la arena
suavemente
llevandola
al fondo.

Al Regreso

I have returned to some of my most favorite places in the world. I am writing from San Cristobal de las Casas in Chiapas after spending two days in Xela. I am returning to so many things tangible and intangible. Estoy contenta y no falta nada. It has been three days and I have already completed two poems. One is in English and the other Spanish and, for now, the one in Spanish will not be translated.

1.

You slid right through my fingers
right through my lips
like words never spoken
between 4am bathroom trips and
bare-assed bathroom tile sits
wailing

Failing to recover
the clots of you that sank
beyond the curve of the toilet drain.

Your blood in mine stained
the blankets and sheets
streaks of loss marked my thighs
dried up cries became empty sighs
an empty womb and a wound
that will reopen month after month
in remembrance.

I sat staring out the window
for a long long time
as the soft white snow
covered everything.

2.

En un momento
cae el sol de mi cielo.
En otro minuto
subo a volar.
En el cielo tan oscuro
vuelo con mis propias alas
en el cielo mio.

Vuelo y descanso en las nubes
porque son mias tambien.
El viento viene, el viento mio,
y me agarra de las alas
y me carga a los destinos nuevos;
nuevos pero bien familiares
lugares que conozco
pero los que nunca he visto.

Acá me encuentro.
Me encuentro agradecida
por mi cielo sin sol,
por mis alas
y mi viento que me deja a volar.
Me muestran como descubrir,
el la oscuridad,
que soy la luna
la luna de mi propia cielo.

Morning Prayer

The beginning of movement

this melodic moment

suspended

between two worlds

words without syllable

or syntax

some call it ‘surrender’

I say that sounds too easy

and yet not simple enough.

‘Suspension’ seems somehow more appropriate

or perhaps ‘morning prayer’ will do.

Blast from the Past

I have been seeking distraction from school work quite regularly lately. My distraction of choice today has been thumbing through the stack of old journals on my bookshelf. There seem to be hundreds of little one-two lined thoughts scribbled into margins and unedited poems on napkins stuffed into the journals' cover pockets. Resurrecting these journals feels like discovering old photo albums of my most personal memories.

Here is a little untitled, unedited bit I found from 2008. Upon reading it, I remembered exactly where I was and what was happening when I wrote it. Bisbee, AZ at the Stock Exchange bar listening to Dylan Charles and his band play their hearts out.

To be free

on two knees

empty

like the metallic pause

of the trumpet's cry

or the saxophones weeping.

To live in loss

as if it was ever

not so.

It's the same as letting go

of anything

of everything

you never had.

Like the love

that has not yet filled

or fit

the contours

of your insides.

Releasing can be relieving

but it can also be deranging.

Listen up,

don't you sit still, child,

tap tip tap your toes

nod and bob that head

switch and sway those hips.

The trumpet and the saxophone

will tell you all you need to know for now

this sound.

My Sweet Lorde

As the end of a semester approaches it brings with it urgent demands of my time and attention. And, as is in my nature, I am meeting this full of resistance and rebellion. Don't fret, I'm still getting shit done, but I am redefining how I am going to do this whole nursing school thing. I am finding little ways to do things my way; little beautiful rebellions to keep me crazy.

One of my most worthy distractions has been discovering and delving into the work of Audre Lorde. I am currently reading a book of poetry by her called Black Unicorn. I keep having the urge to rub my face on its pages. That's the only way I can describe how I feel about her poems, I want to rub my face in them.

Here are two of my many new favorites.

Chorus

Sun

make me whole again

to love

the shattered truths of me

spilling out like dragon's teeth

through the hot lies

of those who say they love

me

when I am done

each shard will spring up

complete and armed

like a warrior woman

hot to be dealt with

slipping through alleyways

of musical night people humming

Mozart

was a white dude.

Fog Report

In this misty place where hunger finds us

seeking direction

I am too close to you to be useful.

When I speak the smell of love on my breath

distracts you

and it is easier for me

to move

against myself in you

than to solve my own equations.

I am often misled

by your familiar comforts

the shape of your teeth is written

into my palm like a second lifeline

when I am fingerprinted

the taste of your thighs

shows up

outlined in the ink.

They found me wandering at the edge

of a cliff

beside the nightmares of your body

"Give us your name and place of birth

and we will show you the way home."

I am tempted

to take you apart

and reconstruct your orifices

your tongue your truths your fleshy altars

into my own forgotten image

so when this fog lifts

I could be sure to find you

tethered like a goat

in my heart's yard.

Girrrl, you crazy!

I have always been uncertain as to what makes one crazy. Some of the most intelligent, creative, interesting and vibrant people I have known in my life have been, at some point, deemed mentally unstable. It seems as though sanity is a sort of tight-rope walk on an invisible chord. Some learn from those before them and/or society how to walk this tight-rope with relative ease and stability while others try, fall and never quite seem to get back up again. The former are considered sane while the latter are insane... pretty straight forward, right? But there is a third category and it is a most perplexing one. It consists of those who know how to balance upon this invisible chord and yet choose to fall from it and then rise back upon it. They continue to fall-rise-fall again and again in some mystical dance their entire lives. We call these people artists, mystics, geniuses, crazy people. And, there are many of us.

I have decided to re-post a poem I wrote in 2009 for my kindred crazies.

Ode to Lunacy

It was not asked for
but accepted
Peculiar preconditions
Delicate dispositions

Such senseless states
Tending us toward
Seasonal psychosis
and teeter-tottering tendancies

To those blessed accursed ones...twos... seven thousands
Unaccounted for
Bound beyond margins becoming
The spines of hard backed
History books

This is for those who see
Differently
Whose knees bounce
Ardently
Keeping time with
The movements
and music
Of their mind

Let these lines be an ode
To those
Whose hands and hearts
Make the beauty we only dream about
Whose lives are like
Broad daylight
and its under appreciated honesty

From those of us who
Know we've known
Only half-lives and lies
We thank you.