It’s not summer anymore and I’m back at my parents place and those two things in combination with a million others got me emotional.
I wrote a poem about a year and a half ago about sitting on the shower floor and I’m doing it again. The sitting not the poetry I haven’t written since that one time in February and I don’t remember who that girl was anymore. I need to write because it’s the only tangible connection I have to an ephemeral reality and if it’s not down on paper I can’t trust it was ever really here to begin with. So I’m sitting on the shower floor and ribs is playing and i’m almost crying but not quite and this is so small but at least in 18 months from now I’ll know i was here and this was real and sometimes that’s all the comfort I need.
And then I cried because the glass on the shower wall steamed up and I remembered how I used to practice my signature in the fog because I thought that’s something you needed to sort out by the time you were thirteen. And then I remembered when I was in primary school and I used to rub soap on my belly and draw a smiley face in it to make myself into a carebear and let me tell you I’ve got so much love for that little Emily.
And that made me think there’s an Emily out there in the future who feels the exact same way about me now and I know she’s proud and loves me so much. Whenever I remember she’s there I can feel that love.
So I guess sometimes when it’s hard to feel good about your own self, maybe you can imagine your Self feeling good about you.
Can you only write when there is no space
There is no time (and no way?)
to exorcise those words.
Reconstruct verses the way emperors raise
cities out of ruins
They stand, but it is never quite the same
On some mornings I send a prayer out the window
to the withering tree
But it was the wrong one; that tree
Was never God
You’ve made a fool of yourself.
Autumn begins to lift up that heavy blanket
of awaiting nothing
and likewise; Nothing waits for you.
You write a poem in the fog
But it makes no sense once the vapour’s have cleared
And where are you now
but the exact place where you once were.
I am resolute only on exceptionally sunny
and exceptionally rainy days
that what is mine will find it’s way
back to me.
I must trust my trust as though it rests,
and heavy in the palm of my hand.
I read somewhere that grief is stored in the lungs
and that makes sense because it feels as though all the selves
I’ve failed sit on my rib cage
and twist my bones as those they’ve got strings
attached to marionette dolls,
make them dance in my dreams.
They control my dreams and I feel like
I’m the one
that ought to leave them in peace.
What you want
comes after the
wanting of it
You are too attached
to the immediacy
of your reality.
Try to see this
life with the distance
of the deep ocean
to its shore.
Your arrival is inevitable
but no time soon.
How do you cope with
this vast space until then?