Crouched, fearsome, lioness!
Stitching together your mother’s clothes,
spear-heading into the unknown
with nimble fingers and a triumphant smile.
You say: we have won, daughters,
collecting trauma like trophies,
like charms dangling round your wrist.
You beat your chest, soft as pillows,
roaring at the moon:
For your sunshine, my daughter,
I rise again.
Pine needles adorned with pearls of rain, forest green, thick milky skies.
I hear melodies in the hum of appliances. Cymbals in rattling pipes, scales in soaring airplanes.
Auburn leaves gently sweeping through the air in slow motion. Like the littlest petals. Bon Iver, maybe Bootstraps cooing. I am watching something unfold: a God-given moment.
“I love music that makes you look up at the sky”.
Clouds, floating grey asteroids in a changing gradient of green, blue and yellow. Van Gough, Money, Degas could not have painted a sky like this, a picture in transition. God, You know beauty like no other. Thank you for the glorious display, the shocking beauty of the sky, like glaciers bathed in warm sun – think marigold, maybe a tangerine before it is ripe- with dark fissures for clouds. Is this the stretching plain of dawn or the falling curtain of night? My grandfather said today that never in history had the clouds been this way, and never again will the pattern be the same again.
You made me feel grand for blinking.
See, I am a spectacle when I breathe.
Even when you’ve forgotten why,
or you never really thought so,
it is true that I am something else.
I do not belong in your vocabulary,
I am not yours to describe,
a thing out of the wilderness.
I’m sorry that you are a murderer
of fanciful thoughts
but I have never changed.
“The moon is like a lemon wedge”, she said.
And I told myself it was beautiful and that I was going to write it down.
We ran with the lemon-wedged moon.
– – – – –
What if she never saw herself as an artist?
Would I be the artist for recognizing her art? I’m taking the truth and I am framing it.
– – – – –
We don’t create, we translate. We just don’t remember when or where we had once felt the same way. All of you poets and creators! We are the same! You describe what is in me.
– – – – –
My story is the most outrageous. Until I hear yours.
– – – – –
We are moments colliding. You remind me of all these other good things.
– – – – –
The music is an animal. A moving mass that has possessed me.
A language. We have diffused into each other.
– – – – –
Thought is a polluter. Please, can you get out of my head.
Do I idealise you, ignore your flaws and diminish their prominence in my mind or do I acknowledge them and forgive you for them? I choose to see you the way I do. If we were perfect, we wouldn’t require forgiveness; we wouldn’t need love. How fortuitous it is that we are all imperfect and in need of love to know that we are lovable still. Conjoined in this.
Make me whole by forgiving me for not being whole at all.
She spoke words of encouragement as she walked me through the door. “You cry so cute-ly”, she said. And still I couldn’t shake the embarrassment of being so blissfully happy, because it is absurd to the world. Somehow, she understood and I thought: I’m meant to be here with this person, this stranger who understands. Her every word was an echo of love and truth; what a beautiful person! And when I turned to close the door and finally looked at her in the light, she wasn’t as attractive as I had imagined or remembered her to be. But why should it matter? It’s like, when you’re drunk and people look nicer. It’s almost a test of acceptance. Why can’t they be just as beautiful just by being who they are? I might not remember her face, but I will remember her kindness. She is beautiful.
I am in love with you as my fingers and muscles pulse. As things slow down and time moves in frames. And I don’t know if I’m slow or if the world is fast. Are you with me? It seems like you are with me. You are genuine, you care, and I am happy. I am so happy. I am touched, I am thankful and I am astounded.
I wish I can remember what exactly we talked about.
That’s why we are astounded by kindness. Because against all odds, they were gentle spirits. There is hope in the world, no matter how small, no matter how few. I almost cannot believe it.
You are more attentive, more aware of what is already there. Flavours acute, beautiful things made more beautiful because you are fixated on the details of what it is. Broken into pieces and made more intense; the sum of it all. Each vessel lit up like broad-beamed floodlights. It was always this way. You were just numb to it.
Like, your stomach is expanding, appetite growing for more experience, more of life. Things are so good and I don’t want to stop.
Perhaps what we see when we close our eyes, the shapes we imagine and the colours we envision are real. Suppose what we see in our mind, those things we believe to be distortions are the truth. Our waking lives are tunnel-visioned. We live through a filter. It is a filtered reality. We know this is true (we live through a filter) but to what extent? Is the inside out? Have I created or did it already exist?