Would It All Be Mine?

sky space telescope universe

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

If the ocean turned pink,

then it would be mine.

If the earth changed rotation,

it would be mine.

If the sparrows barked,

they would be mine.

And if the mice spoke,

they would be mine too.

If up became down and down up,

they would be mine.

And if sound became silence

and sight the blackness of night,

they would be mine.

 

If only I stayed silent.

If I had stayed silent

and the ocean turned pink

and the earth changed rotation

the sparrows barked

the mice spoke

and the universe turned itself inside out

and sound and sight disappeared

into the black void of an ancient catacomb

…if I stayed silent,

would it all be mine?

Surely, it would never be yours.

Forty-Six

How long does it take

for a heart to no longer feel?

For the blood to coagulate

and harden?

How long does it take

for the heart to beat against itself-

its soft tissue slapping a relic

of an unfortunate past,

a pulse with no flow,

alive yet dead,

pounding on the door of an empty house?

There is no one home.

After forty-six years

its tenant has left.

 

 

Spindle-Fingered Trees

Winter SkyTrees lurch from an icy wasteland,

their spindle fingers clawing at the sky,

hoping for something to grab hold of,

but there is nothing they can do-I told them so.

Their roots reach too deep into the ground.

There is no way to loosen earth’s grip

unless, of course, I chop them down.

But it strikes me that death is not what they desire.

The poor things are too stupid-they think they can fly.

I can fly-away

-in a plane.

Or, perhaps, not.

Perhaps only in my mind.

But they can’t.

And so I think they are afraid.

I understand.

Sometimes I am afraid too-to be left here.

Sometimes I fear a horrible beast will set fire to this ice-and it will melt

and we will all drown.

flailing and choking on the last of our breaths

until we quiet and sleep

and the ground once again freezes and sprouts trees born of loss

so that they too can reach their spindle fingers into the sky and hope that in the gray nothingness lies

salvation.

 

 

Heels

AutumnDeath&Dreams

I hear the sharp clack of heels upon the floor

and I think of my mother on Sunday morning.

It is not a pleasant sound.

It is the sound of church

and an endless four o’clock when the sun glares low and unrelenting,

insisting that we learn to understand the length of a day,

a day that begins with the clacking of heels and ends in silence

if not for the ringing in the ears and the hum of electric appliances.

 

I hear the sharp clack of heels upon the floor.

I think of my mother.

I am startled the sound is mine.

My heels banging-

banging out the dirge of an eternal Sunday

like an inmate, banging a tin cup upon bars of his prison cell.

There is no sunlight.

He does not know when the day ends and begins

It is one day.

 

It has all been but a day.

It will all be but a day.

One day.

One eternity.

 

The Moon and the Yew Tree by Sylvia Plath

I didn’t plan to discuss poetry on the show, but two weeks ago I listened to a reading of Sylvia Plath’s The Moon and the Yew Tree, a work that is startlingly haunting and beautiful, and I just couldn’t let go of it. This week I talk about not only the poem but the importance of broadening the lens by which we view Plath.

Transcendence

This floor, I do not mind.

It is not impenetrable.

I can still feel the quake beneath my feet.

Despite its lacquer finish that attempts to hide the worm holes,

I can still hear the buzzing

and feel the vibration of insects

swarming underfoot.

I quite like it, really

the sound of all that chaos.

It is a welcome reprieve from the mortuary silence within these clean white walls

and this pretty floor that, try as it might,

cannot hide from me all that clamors for my attention.

But this ceiling

this ceiling is a problem.

It too shines as if no spider ever dare crawl across its surface.

I could lie here naked upon this cool, smooth floor looking up into the eternal void of this antiseptic ceiling.

I could lie here and feel the rumble of armies storming forth from the core.

I could press my back into the wood just to feel the pummels of the invading marauders.

I could enjoy it.

I would enjoy it

if not for this ceiling.

This clean, white ceiling

that keeps me safe,

that keeps me here.

Melancholy, Like an Old Empty House

Two summers ago my daughter, who was almost nine years old at the time, and I visited Edith Wharton’s home, The Mount in Lenox, Massachusetts. The house was beautiful and impressive, but my daughter was frightened not only in the house but outside as well, even as we walked through the magnificent gardens that Wharton herself designed. My daughter said the property felt haunted and asked if we could leave.

I later learned that The Mount is in fact rumored to be haunted. Surprisingly, Wharton had a deep fear of ghosts, despite having been a talented ghost story writer. Some of her most popular ghostly tales are Afterward, The Lady Maid’s Bell and The Triumph of Night.

It was our visit to The Mount that inspired this poem, which I originally posted in August 2018.

Melancholy, Like an Old Empty House

So, this is what it feels like

-melancholy.

Like an old, empty house

sitting atop a hill

on a hot summer day.

Inside, it is dead, silent, still.

Like a fever, the heat permeates the walls,

the film covered windows

the narrow stairwell-

meant for the unseen,

like sadness

hiding under smiles.

*

Melancholy, like an old, empty house

where the sun emanates a jaundiced glow

and the dust and ghosts

and memories

sit at the table awaiting tea

to be poured into cups

stained with past regrets.

*

But the time to drink is over

and the thirst that remains

is eternal.

If you want to learn more about Wharton, The Mount and her story Pomegranate Seed, please check out this episode of Strange & Scary Story Talk. Also, please note that while recoding I inadvertently say that The Mount is set upon a 13 acre property rather than 113 acres!