The Music of a Captive Heart

Artwork - Toshiyuki Enoki

i say shhh

can you hear it?

how can you possibly

not?

i can't write

or read

or think
can't shut it out
nor turn it off

don't tell me

you can't hear 

that beautiful

terrible

melody

harmony 

of stones

skipping
over rivers of tears

be still, listen

you might catch

the soft staccato drum

of a woman's footsteps

in circles, searching

stop talking, listen

to the a cappella rustle
of owls in pines
low moan adagios
of tidal estuaries,
eastbound trains
hold your breath, listen
to broken chord murmurs
of a beloved voice
a virtuoso
reaching for the highest
notes
if all else fails
press your ear
against my breast
put your hands
upon my back
pull me tight
stay there, listen
can you hear it
now?
the music
of my captive
heart

I Wonder

i thought about her today
and wondered
where she'd gone,
that magical
windswept creature
braving the gusts
of an ancestral spring
on a two-tree hill

i remembered that day
and the ease with which
she held herself
once they could cajole
her into actually looking
at the camera
clasping her own hands
as proof of her comfort
in her exotic singularity

i recall she was a dreamer
lost in worlds of knights
on white stallions
and sword bearing
princesses in hennins
easily distracted
by leaves
clouds
the haunting poetry
of a whip-poor-will

she hadn't a care
in the world that day
not one
there wasn't much of a past
to remember and the lumbering
weight of her future had yet
to settle on her shoulders
she was living in her moment,
that day

i thought about her today
wanted to take her
by the hand, run
up the two-tree hill
and hide away,
just the two of us
but i was too late
by the time i'd found
my way back to her,
she'd gone ahead
into our future,
never once looking back
for me

Birthing

Photograph ~ Diana Matisz

tangled hair
ragged clothes
haggard eyes
weeping contradictions
i stand on the precipice
of this dark wing dream
fingers clenching tidal mud
to stuff in a mouth, agape
staunching the rupture
of untapped love, seeping
vaporizing into air gravid
with fat sodden tears
of a dying winter
and as i lay panting,
this wasted joy
this sanguinary birth
of loss
drifts, ghostly,
up, up through
red nipple buds
of trees in labor
rising, nestling
beneath blue heron wings
this sacrifice, disappearing
in the whispering static
of wings and watershed moments

Cry Baby

c
r
y

over
love's
gruesome death spiral
over romance's
spiraling inception

c
r
y

over
loss's
bitter little pill
over
gain's
enriching satiety

c
r
y

when
cruel words
embed with barbs
when
honeyed kisses
katana-arc a throat

c
r
y

as
blows
strangle hopes
as
gasps
regale senses

c
r
y

for
nothing
in particular
for
everything
that matters

c
r
y

baby

c
r
y

Ma Bell

Photographer - Unknown

sitting there
she taunts
pristine
cold
silent
vocal cords
taut
coiled
her refusal to speak
a victory
against the need
screaming
in my head
but when she sings,
oh, when she sings
her soprano trill
steals my breath
chills
enchant my skin
i reach for her
press my ear
against hers
and hear
the melody
i've been
anticipating,
my inamorato's
murmur

The Fine Art of Keening

Digital Artwork ~ 'Keening' by Diana Matisz

I'm foregoing my usual writing style today for something else, simply because it wants out. This post is inspired by a Twitter friend inVinceWil and something he wrote regarding grief.  This is Vince's quote:

"Grief wants to be acknowledged in order for it to leave the room. Otherwise, it will get cozy in the loveseat."

Other than writing a short poem about my brother on these pages earlier this month, I haven't written or said much about him. It's simply been too difficult. The above quote took me by the shoulders and shook some sense into me today. My grief is profound, just as it is for all of my family. I told a dear friend in the UK recently, that I've noticed I'm spending more time in my kitchen these days. Rather than writing, reading, chatting online in the comfort of my living room or bedroom, I gravitate to my kitchen table. I told my friend I'd determined the reason for this to be that I have photographs of my brother in those other rooms. When I look at his photo, I cry. I don't want to cry, so I don't look. Then I feel like a bad sister and I look, and the cycles begin again.

I've learned the fine art of keening. I've never keened before this. I've cried, sobbed, choked back tears, raved, but never keened. Not even when my beloved sister-in-law passed away years ago. This is new to me, this rocking back and forth, open-mouthed incoherent wails, sometimes no sound at all coming out....just the crippled posture of it all.  I hate when it happens. It's often brought me to my knees. And it never knocks first, it just barges in, unannounced.

I fight this grief every day. I try to bury it in inconsequentials. Rename it, dissect it, steal its power. I ignore it and treat it like a plague. But thanks to Vince, I've realized that by doing these things, I've allowed grief to become a messy and greedy boarder. It has settled in happily, rent-free and is devouring my supplies.

I will lament the grievous loss of my brother for the remainder of my life.  I will let grief stay for a while longer but I won't let it get cozy again.

Thank you Vince.

[ Vince is also one of my favorite writers. Please take a moment to stop and visit his words at What's In Vince L. Wilson. ]

His Name

Photograph ~ Diana Matisz

from my lips
his name,
rouged and plump
glistening
like sex
his name
from my lips,
urgent mantra
liberated alphabet
surging
from my lips
his name,
raven-winged
river-birthed
spate of tides
his name
from my lips,
velvet
storms
slipping
from my lips,
his name

Marked for Life

scrubbing
til skin is raw
the steam
of bartered passion
sloughing cells
clogged with
cloying love
wanting
to be
clean of it
free of it
over it
wiping drops
of water
mixed with tears
off a body
reddened
by self-abuse
thinking
i've succeeded
standing
at the mirror
watching
ink appear
the whorls
of fingertips
cradling breasts
indent of lips
at the corner
of my mouth
imprint
of your cheekbone
in the hollow
of a hip
your voice
a tribal incantation
inking primrose
words of bliss
across my nape
and soon,
i'm once again,
covered,
head to toe
in you
realizing
how deep
you mine
for coal
beneath the skin
and knowing
i love you,
still

When The Bough Breaks

Photograph - Diana Matisz

i am
a passerine
perched
on a fragile bough
quivering body
hunched
tight
hard
before the Furies
eyes closed
head tucked
into feathered
nape, vulnerable
weary
of storms
of the effort
to hold on
tight
hard
against
capitulation
listening
for a robin's trill
beneath
the keen
of winter
singing,
sway
breathe
draw deep
the zest
of ice and pine
feel the bite
the lick
the lash
of pain
for this
is living

now,
fly

Stevie's Smokes

walk

stumble

straighten

walk

into his house

first thing noticed

his sneakers,

right where he left them

where he always left them

his collections

his music his son his wife
his favorite chair

but no him

the air thick with his absence

heavy with the silence

of his laugh

clouded with the dimming

of blue blue eyes
sneaking glances upstairs
round corners
listening listening
straining
for something
of him
leaving his house
crippled with sorrow
bent into older age
by the weight 7 -1 = 6
burying my wet face
in the sleeves of my coat
fragrant with Stevie's smokes

[ For Stevie / beloved brother and friend ]