Saturday, February 18, 2017
The Scaffolding Inside You
By Olena Kalytiak Davis
Your thoughts have hung themselves from nails
The sky has stopped
offering you reasons to live and your heart is the rock
you threw through each window
of what's deserted you, so you turn
to the burnt out building inside you: the scaffolding
overhead, the fallen beams,
the unsound framework;
according to the blue that's printed on the inside of your arms
you have no plans, no plans
uncovered, or uncovering: the offing is emptying,
the horizon empty
now that your sanity is
a tarp or a bedsheet
in the rough hands of the wind,
now that everything is hooded
in drop cloth.
It didn't happen
overnight. Or maybe it did:
your heart, the rock;
your soul, the Gothic barn.
You've even started envying the flowers their stems.
Will the Norther let up?
Will the moon ever again be so full of itself
that that ragged barn will fill with light, through its tin-covered roof?
You should bury more than the dead.
You should try harder.
You should give up.
From: "And Her Soul Out of Nothing"
I'm listing, falling & yes, envying the flowers their stems... xo, ML
Sunday, February 12, 2017
|My heart on a vine... xo|
Doors of My Heart
by Deborah Digges
The wind blows
through the doors of my heart.
It scatters my sheet music
that climbs like waves from the piano, free of the keys.
Now the notes stripped, black butterflies,
flattened against the screens.
The wind through my heart
blows all my candles out.
In my heart and its rooms is dark and windy.
From the mantle smashes birds’ nests, teacups
full of stars as the wind winds round,
a mist of sorts that rises and bends and blows
or is blown through the rooms of my heart
that shatters the windows,
rakes the bedsheets as though someone
had just made love. And my dresses
they are lifted like brides come to rest
on the bedstead, crucifixes,
dresses tangled in trees in the rooms
of my heart. To save them
I’ve thrown flowers to fields,
so that someone would pick them up
and know where they came from.
Come the bees now clinging to flowered curtains.
Off with the clothesline pinning anything, my mother’s trousseau.
It is not for me to say what is this wind
or how it came to blow through the rooms of my heart.
Wing after wing, through the rooms of the dead
the wind does not blow. Nor the basement, no wheezing,
no wind choking the cobwebs in our hair.
It is cool here, quiet, a quilt spread on soil.
But we will never lie down again.
Wednesday, February 8, 2017
Shaking all over, she arrives near the lamp, and her dizziness grants her one last vague reprieve before she goes up in flames. She has fallen into the green tablecloth, and upon that advantageous background she stretches out for a moment (for a unit of her own time which we have no way of measuring) the profusion of her inconceivable splendor.
She looks like a miniature lady who is having a heart attack on the way to the theater. She will never arrive. Besides, where is there a theater for such fragile spectators?…. Her wings, with their tiny golden threads, are moving like a double fan in front of no face; and between them is this thin body, a bilboquet onto which two eyes like emerald balls have fallen back….
It is in you, my dear, that God has exhausted himself. He tosses you into the fire so that he can recover a bit of strength. (Like a little boy breaking into his piggy bank.)
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
From: The Complete French Poems, Poems and Dedications, 1920-26
translation: Stephen Mitchell