Friday, March 20, 2009

jar poem

poem that bubbled up from a friend's poetry and the fond memories I only barely have of "canning season". there seems to be a theme with putting puzzles pieces together. if only I could glue them in place.

---
His poetry right now is
a sweet sigh. In silk-steamy morning
light it shines sometimes, like
dewdrops that collect
then fall. such mundane breaking,
how we like to have things
put together— the simple contentment
of the top of a jar of jam—
that checker pattern
pulled tight.
crushed jewels of berries and
precious sugar, burnt fingers
steaming glass. poems that curve
like those jars—into my hands,
into the stinging water. My great-grandmother’s
recipe, elegant scrawl. It’s all
water-stained, worn to cloth, the
ruby-filled pot, cream paper,
the shining jars sitting on
my front step, waiting
to be taken, emptied, a sigh of ease
when the poem’s lid is tight.
Their gleaming sides studded with morning.

in which the ocean crumbles

another "I have so much anxiety it sings me to insomnia" poem. I highly recommend Octavia Butler's "Parable of the Sower" if you want to experience the full-frontal panic-inducing apocalyptic beauty that brought this baby on.

A million times a day I go to touch myself—
hands warm from washing dishes,
the quick shower—
but forget, fingers poised partway
or find only slick ashes that stick
to your fingers, flake
into the measly dinner
my body a dogged reminder of
this constant cracking, crackling
the way glaciers slide of mountains
heavy, slow, and great.
Chaos is the whisper that begins
the cracking ice:
god is change. Conflict and order
yin and yang, here and not,
blank paper and that covered in
my shaky hand, blank face or
myself curled, sobbing –

A million times a day
I put a hand
to my own heart
as if to hush a child,
then remember—

what we learned that rainy Monday evening
that to suppress is to damage,
that to shush that I am
angry I am
stupid I am
afraid
Oh god how I hurt
is to press black memories into the muscles
like a branding iron—
hands sliding down my throat I remember
the ways to heal them—
shaking crying laughing
sweating talking raging
orgasm, I want to add to the list
on the board. Coming, and singing,
dancing, but my mouth makes no sound and the professor moves on.
I realize that we do these things
in the first six, crygasms and gigglefits
the song of soft talk and dance of your eyes,
when his face twists so angry I fear for
more things than usual.

I can’t bring myself to any of them.

Even the height of pleasure or the
low-slung weight of violation bring only
a fitful trying sleep and the welts
burn deeper, seep anew.

Black and white, yin and yang
conflict order—everything is
constantly falling apart—
schoolwork, poetry, my clothes
scattered like wind, money,
the tenuous threads of friendship,
when we hesitate to say love,
my health, my grandmother’s,
all our futures—
and I clasp it all together like hands
like ash being pulled by the wind
I grasp, it crumbles, I grasp
each morning and my breath
shatters the semblance of control
like ice in the leftover mug,
the maya I attatch to, illusion worth
breaking down for like when you
miss a lover’s hand on your stomach
in the icy dawn, to howl like ocean wind
for that regimented absence—

the same soda and vodka that
swirls in my grandfathers’ glass,
sea wind that braids herself
into me, urging my belly to soften
at each cresting wave,
sandcastles rising and melting again
but sometimes
it is too much
and the saltwater burns and my
bird-bones hate the riptide, the
winter sun of friend-family-heat is
so far away, too far for my
leaden legs and weighted heart
to push towards, like wheeling gulls
clean air, the blip of blue sky

as I scream ocean into my lungs and breathing
at once
doesn’t matter
and
is everything.

Everything
crumbles,
changes.

We build, it breaks, every minute
hour year second day every blink
and that is the only constant—that there are none.

I put my hand to my neck,
a thrumming necklace, the pressure
of possibility, a sweet
reminder - remember
to slow down,
catch up. Still no real release—
anxiety sits like a sunken ship
and fish nibble on worries
more ancient that this little body
of mine. What would it take—
warm hands on the skin,
lips against my curved shoulder
like blessing a ship’s prow—
to unlock it all— but still
there must be movement,
change; stillness
means sinking, means death.
There is no stopping.
Our blood will not always
beat in time, if this instant,
if at all, to kiss the thin skin
over my pulse is a plea, not a promise—
a question I can’t answer
in surety.
Waves recede eventually, and there
are branding irons, hammer-fists, at the bottom
of all the oceans,
waiting on every high ground.

The smallest mistake will undo me
into an unraveling fractal, uprooted oak—
a child’s hand-written note,
leaving a crisis at the doorway
a boy’s offhanded “hey, faggot”—
What I know I cannot save.
The same tears erupt when others echo
what my heart’s been singing, what I know
I can snatch away before it sinks.

Dialectical—two or more states
that cannot exist alone, that
reinforce each other. Conflict, order.
Father, son. Bitch, beautiful.
But do they necessitate? Can I ever just
breathe in, keep holding you, step
forward, swim upwards, grasp hands
like ropes and anchors?
Dialect varies by region, so what
are we speaking here, lips blue with cold wind,
what moon am I singing this to, what words
whispered against my salt-heavy skin
will bring a raging, shaking, healing sleep—