Since the first version seems to have mysteriously vanished from the previous post, here is the reconstructed version (similar but probably not identical to the original) – this will teach me not to keep copies!!
pain spikes
an indrawn breath
a shout above the background noise
needles through my flesh
and I
breathe in
enduring as always
waiting
for it to pass
Here are some more of my poems. These are all older ones.
I like to rip up paper
And crumple it in my hand
It’s an underrated occupation
But it’s one I understand
———–
A drop of rain
Falling
Reflects the sun
———–
Is it best
To be a tree
Floating darkly in the wind,
To be a bird
Soaring on sunbeams,
To be a worm
Wriggling through the dark,
To be a cloud
Drifting blindly between extremes,
To be me
Lost in the cold
Or just to be
Mindless and alive?
———–
I watch the roses die.
I watch the leaves fall.
I watch the houses crumble.
Must I outlive them all?
This is an old one, written many years ago:
your touch trails my skin
mapping the hills and valleys of my body
I tremble
flesh turning to liquid beneath your touch
but not liquid enough
you did not stir my ocean’s surface
any more than the merest breeze
and never even touched
the depths beneath
You hurt me,
and more than once,
not with a fist
or even a word,
but with your disregard,
treating me as without need or desire,
as a backdrop to your life,
as an object for your use,
as a cipher, a prop, a toy,
And I put up with it,
as if I deserved no more,
as if I could do no better,
as if love is enough without respect,
But it’s not,
and never has been,
and never will be.
However long it takes to learn the lesson
is time well spent
for a future
without you.
I’ve always loved this poem by Stevie Smith. It speaks to something in me that’s often felt misunderstood, misinterpreted.
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning
When I first read this, I felt a sense of recognition, a feeling that I had been seen. I felt I knew what Smith was talking about when she wrote it, or, rather, that she had written it for me, about me, that she knew how I felt.
I felt known, in a way that I hadn’t previously.
For me, this is a poem about appearances, about the way people interpret one another. It’s about how two people can see the same thing, but understand it completely differently. It’s about how easy it is to misunderstand, to read something that isn’t there – it’s about how you never really know what someone else is thinking or feeling.
For me, the reason I love this poem is that I feel that Smith understands the way that a laugh can also be a scream, that you can smile while dying inside. That she understands the way you can spend so long hiding your true feelings that all anyone sees, all anyone knows, is the mask. And sometimes there was good reason to wear that mask initially; sometimes it was only having the mask that saved your life, but eventually the mask becomes a trap, locking you away from those you care about. And that’s when you end up like the man in the poem, where you’re begging for help while everyone thinks you’re having the time of your life.
Bleak, huh? But it was a realisation that made me resolve to stop being that person, to destroy the mask and to learn to ask for help, or to accept it when offered. It’s still a work in progress, of course: childhood survival techniques are hard to shake, even when you know they don’t help any more.
[Edited to add Categories/Tags]
Random Ramblings 