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Who could house all the refugees...
| Open Poetry #19 |
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Who could house all the refugees... |
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Elizabeth Cor Senior Member
since 2000-10-13
Posts 879Over the river and through the woods 
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At the core, there are only paltry, sequestered vessels: little mahogany boxes with gold locks and tiny keys to house the silver ticking anamnesis of younger love a thick glass jar -- tougher than it looks -- with nail-rust on the edges, that holds all the blue of Kentucky from March to November and the smell of tobacco fields in summer... it seems empty, almost, until that scent knocks you back a few years and you can feel your soul curl up lazy-like in the memory of that huge hammock in front, in all the calm and quiet glory of those days... ...the back pond a mirror of heaven: I could wade in and watch the sunset blend around me: the clouds a blazing, bronzy tartan smudging the bowl of sky above; rippling the air and the pink oil covering my feet... I was dazed gold myself, with the peace of the whole South swirling around my knees like carp... I felt my soul spill out into those waters and feed the high grasses and the trunks of trees that stood a century round, to richen the dirt and the earthworms and the dry, dust-eaten leaves, you learn the cycle of things there: one from the other: how when cattle was slaughtered, I knew my own sweat -- dripped into the pond, worked into the soil -- as it was sipped from the muscle in my mouth... a seal on that jar, a blue, paint-chipped lid... twisted tight as rope ‘round a blistered palm... a tiny pink purse, Barbie-style, thick three-year-old plastic and flowers... and if I pop the little button Dez is asleep on my lap for the first time, & singing her whole damn heart out over the phone, & hugging me the first night she met me, to the silent gasps of the family... with the warmth comes the wash of the drawing back, too... when worship waned to acceptance, when I withdrew and didn’t know how much until she didn’t light when I opened the door... and I closed mine to her insistent, tiny knocks... snap. quiet as an afternoon nap; as the closed latch of a heart. Oh, and a porcelain kettle -- a container still -- the spout crushed to powder: sentimental Anthrax. If I lift the lid and just barely breathe: the phone call when she met me, the dinner for Josh’s graduation, how she kissed my forehead that one night, crying as I said that perhaps no one had ever tried to understand before... and told me afterward it was because I knew... then, later, how, the next day, she beamed at the office: “Last night I met the girl that my son is going to spend the rest of his life with.” The note when I moved in (kept, still, as if in hiding, buried under paperwork in a yellow envelope where I cannot come across it, but god, cannot throw it away), the purple flowers (left in the corner of the closet) and, somehow, like some disease, the long decay into doors slammed on silence worse than empty, and desperate screaming... a sickened sadness more terrible than any I’ve ever known... friends, lovers lost... but never before has the relation become a cancer... and I feel it in the marrow of my bones, jesus... as if the whole thing began gnawing at itself from the beginning, not knowing any better than to take flesh from flesh and consume: some dumb, cannibalistic emotion, rotted white -- as from the bottom of a well -- and rat-like, with insect instinct: only starving, only knowing to survive. I think, as if in consolation, but cannot bare the pain, cannot bare it... would smash it if I could; instead, wipe the dust from the pale curve and push the thing to shadows, corners, and all darkness craving to be unseen. A jaunty twist of wire and five notes in a green box, sharp enough to skin anyone who dares touch it... lovingly pricked moon by blue moon... its corner black from beading blood. Oh, the grieving indulgent... the smooth white cardboard josh box, and all it’s offending pins inside... god, how he could bear, then slight, that rough gash in his soul for me, watch for months ( the peteface, he named it) that drowning sorrow... whispering for girl-gone-sour, who stole his best friend and the last of his heart and crushed both... “I’m so sorry it happened to you.” And how it must have looked, that face of mine in sympathy when he was still begging... that is the true tooth of finality, I’ve learned, to see the saddened smile of a lover left... aching to see you ache with no emptiness to return. The worst, I think, that last, purposeful, “I’m sorry” when it’s really meant... when they can only see you and not themselves inside... its corners dog-eared, tucked tenderly together, deeper lessons neglected and shut away ... Rocks too, all tumbled in a cloth bag, for the thousand rivers crossed and chased, eased down by and cast out to all thoughts on the matter... the biggest part of me I think, there... in the rocks that talk of trees and water and walks... all secrets, slyly tied, one slip knot to a small brown thread... And there is star dust, and a big blue tub for all stories lost and longed for, and sheet music for the poetry dance of every beat, beat, beat of this heat... the wonder loved and lost, and magic forgotten and gained... ... all that too, in a black box, invisible... solid-liquid and almost white... tiny scraps... some with spiders and spirals, thumbnail cubes... a thousand bantam boxes, all vaulted in... but, if instead of this broom cabinet, lowly bungalow... its idiot shuffled shelvery and confused sort of parcels, I was composed of... cathedrals perhaps, where there might be shelter enough for myself and you when steel doors are needed, to keep wind and the world out and stone walls, to keep us from infecting each other... when whispers through walls were not enough to penetrate screens of protection and banter, full of ghosts, no longer the acid abrasion to mortar (cold as the winter it was laid) In that space and silence I could hold her in a far wing (harbor that distance from here)... with the potential to separate, like children, the tantrum tangle of my exclusive personal loss and the need of your resolve... I’d be able to closet the selfish greed for you... the jealousy, and half-eaten pain... bore out the urgent hollow: that instinct of breast & spirit, tucked under my tongue, pillow, hands and heart, throbbing forward in every thoughtless vein, the indomitable belonging to you, felt no matter how denied by self or otherwise... be able to contain this somehow, instead of having it spill over everything I touch... red and vicious white... ... love boiled down... a sweet and tragic paste... effusing the all of us, when words, novels can’t even suggest... to be able to close, just once, just a moment and be happy for you, like I said I wanted to be... (and I do) ...perhaps if I were made of bigger things. [This message has been edited by Nan (02-22-2002 06:19 PM).] |
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| © Copyright 2002 Megs - All Rights Reserved | |||
Mistletoe Angel 
since 2000-12-17
Posts 32816Portland, Oregon |
  BRAVO!!! Oh my gosh, this is fabulous, I LOVE IT!!! You are such a marvelous storyteller and I too hope that he lives a life of happiness while you too can find solace in the space around! (kiss on cheek) We all love you so much, sweet friend, this is fantastic! You have such a beautiful heart, sweet Beth, thank you for sharing!  May love and light always shine upon you! Love, Noah Eaton [This message has been edited by Mistletoe Angel (02-17-2002 04:29 PM).] |
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Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California |
Elizabeth-- You write so well, with such apparent ease, as if it flowed from some inner you that has a faucet that you just turn on...I really enjoyed reading this, poet!! |
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doreen peri Member Elite
since 1999-05-25
Posts 3812Virginia |
jealousy ridden within a fraction of a part of a heart, riddled by the pain of rev, the start of endeavor, the implication of dread and doubt on an overhead projector spanning out the truth while a stolen seal of real overcomes the youth of a doll, legs too tall for hips, waist the wasted fall of nothing at all but the taking in of belts, listening silently to the heartfelt rhythms of peace played out on music sheets like rain had some greater answer. we are but soul dancers and there's no greater cor than the pirrouettes and leaps beyond the dor greed is just a gesture to ignore hollow is a heart which won't endure hard the call of touch behind a shade of much too much while dreams have dosed heavy in the comotose of blind find me in your lines find me in your lines |
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Mysteria
since 2001-03-07
Posts 18328British Columbia, Canada |
I am in awe reading this piece - you were born with a gift, and I thank you for sharing this small part of it with me this morning! Awesome! (and Doreen - you rock!) LOL Live today like it was your last day on earth! |
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Severn Member Rara Avis
since 1999-07-17
Posts 7704 |
~Muses~ ~Muses more~ Isn't able to come up with anything to say that encompasses the emotion. Soft hugs, you gifted writer. K |
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Jamie Member Elite
since 2000-06-26
Posts 3168Blue Heaven |
This being the open forum and all-- Let me first say what an enjoyable poem this was to read.It made me think of what we would be like if we locked our memories and regrets away and never used them to help us grow in a way this seems to point to. Cheers :J There is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar. |
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Elizabeth Cor Senior Member
since 2000-10-13
Posts 879Over the river and through the woods |
~tears~ Thank you. That seems such a shriveled inadequate word, but I can't write anymore right now, I just can't... But I will... until then, an all-consuming embrace, to house all of you, and the full of everything I cannot (yet) say. |
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Midnitesun
since 2001-05-18
Posts 28647Gaia |
No chit chat replies from me either. An incredible read of a heart bleeding memories openly and vividly. A soft and gently hug for you, and a wink to Dor, who feels the inner core. |
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serenity blaze Member Empyrean
since 2000-02-02
Posts 27738 |
you learn the cycle of things there: one from the other: *smiling at you* Well, let's certainly hope so!  and I'm late, and once again, I read your words, and think to myself, "I'm never writing again!" It's like I found a piece of you floating on parchment in the wind. And I'll have to e mail you the rest, or otherwise I'll write a book here! Stunning. Just stunning writing. |
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Auguste
since 2000-02-16
Posts 3953By the sea |
Elizabeth, You truly are an amazingly gifted writer. Your imagery is both original and stunning. I applaud you! Michael Michael Auguste~ |
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Sven
since 1999-11-23
Posts 14937East Lansing, MI USA |
it's amazing to me how such lines can flow so effortlessly from such a pen. . . it's like it all comes out at once. . . like that proverbial river that's ready to wash away all that's wrong with the world. . . and leave in it's place. . . words from the soul. . . yes, write more. . . write it all out. . . we'll be here. . . ready to read. . .and to take the messages to heart. . . ------------------------------------------------------- To the world, you may only be one person. But to one person, you may be the world. |
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JBaker515
since 2001-02-28
Posts 458Dartmouth College |
LONG....but wonderful. I am glad i engaged in this! |
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Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
will tell you later probably. |
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Elizabeth Cor Senior Member
since 2000-10-13
Posts 879Over the river and through the woods |
... and I find that still I am without the proper words. So, thanks to all, once again... it's been needed. |
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Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
other than the peeing in the pool part, this is definitely your best poem, though not by much - you don't post bad work, despite your protestation to same. "sentimental Anthrax" kills me - that has to be one of the best lines i've ever heard - i WANT it. hugs C |
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Jamie Member Elite
since 2000-06-26
Posts 3168Blue Heaven |
I must have missed any inference to peeing in the pool. I have read this fully a dozen times now out of sheer frustration of not being able to find it. I have seen a soul pouring-- sweat dripping -blood beading - and love boiled down -- no fouling of the pool to be found--- where did i miss it?--lol JThere is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar. |
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Elizabeth Cor Senior Member
since 2000-10-13
Posts 879Over the river and through the woods |
lol... that's C's dementia... ask him about his reality, I DON'T want to go there...~grin~ ...and now that I've had time to settled, I think i can do the individual replies... Martie, your presence is always such and honor, and grants grand insight... a faucet *sigh* , if there is a current here, it comes from a swallowed, but perhaps not inner place... but, yes, I agree, it surged... thank you for your words and vision... doreen, I will say it again: FLOORED. Every time I come back to this reply I get a little misty-eyed again...*sigh* thank you... Mysteria, you are so welcome, and this certainly was an enormous piece... pulled not unpainfully...(she does, doesn't she?) thank you SO much. K, soft hugs back. And I think I've built at least a tri-level now, thanks to you. J, god and if that's not my goal... the growing... thank you, sir... Midnitesun, thank you for the hugs, gratefully taken... open and vivid, indeed... K, your visits to my ramblings just freakin' make my week, karen... You say too much, lady... how am I to respond to something that overwhelms? I'm still awaiting that letter...(no pressure!*wink*... just anxious to hear from you ~s~) enormous thanks... Michael, Original and stunning?... too generous...thank you for the applause! Sven, so what? You're saying I'm a drain??? Thank you, my constant follower of postedbanter... JBaker515, there is NOTHING wrong with long... or wonderful . Thanks.C, *ahem* ...promising etchings, emotional Braille... I get peeing in a pool??? ~shaking head~ ~smiles~ and yeah, that's my favorite... thanks for the review on this and yours... for posting, in fact in that hurried lunch hour... you were right, it needed to be here. Jamie, I swear I don't know WHAT is wrong with him... |
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Christopher
Moderator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-08-02
Posts 8296Purgatorial Incarceration |
for a few moments here i'll be serious - one of the distinct advantages i have with ms/ cor is the ability to call her up on the phone (though she often calls me first )and verbally run through the poem entire, explaining my feelings and interpretations (get to that in a sec), and in general passing along my kudos in real time. and then, due to the nature of our relation ship, ms. cor gets a cocky, playful response here in the forums. as she full well knows, it is no more a sign of disrespect than it is serious. i honestly believe, and have told her, that i think she ranks right near the top of the very small list of poets i truly admire here at passions. add to that that i think this her best, well, there you have it. as to the peeing in the pool - well, lol, there was a part that made me think of that (and maybe you'd have to know her to understand...) I felt my soul spill out into those waters and feed the high grasses and the trunks of trees that stood a century round, to richen the dirt and the earthworms and the dry, dust-eaten leaves, you learn the cycle of things there: one from the other: how when cattle was slaughtered, I knew my own sweat -- dripped into the pond, worked into the soil -- as it was sipped from the muscle in my mouth... it's bad, I know, but well... you'd have to see us to understand. anyway, i just wanted to express - mostly to you Jamie - that my words are not to be disrespectful... i forget sometimes that others aren't in on the 'inside' jokes. Peace C |
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Jamie Member Elite
since 2000-06-26
Posts 3168Blue Heaven |
In the tradition of "whose line is it anyway"--"so, what are you trying to say?- that i needed that explanation? Is that what you are trying to say?---lol Pretty much what I figured. Though I thought you just threw it in there out of the blue...who knew you actually had a line that made you think of it...-- and I really doubt anyone thought you were being disrespectful. Jps-- I hope you are familiar with the "what are you trying to say" skit -- There is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar. |
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Elizabeth Cor Senior Member
since 2000-10-13
Posts 879Over the river and through the woods |
just... still. |
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bsquirrel
since 2000-01-03
Posts 7855 |
How is writing like this even possible? Do you sit down and it flows out in sick, rattling sobs? Does it burn like song? How do you make the shapes, the notes? How do you sculpt vowels to intent, and lay it all down, without trick, in the dust? AAAAAAAH! *thump* |
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