The rain pours down on you, soaking you down with its weight of lessness, betrayal and unwantedness. As the weight of the rain becomes your new choice of clothing, the heart’s blister becomes restless with its tales of lessness, betrayal and unwantedness. And between the weight of the rain and the heart’s blister, you just cease to be, and you are washed off to the drain, along with the city’s filth of lessness, betrayal and unwantedness.
The weight of the world is not love
But the lovelessness in love
And the plight of having to seek stars
In smokey blues
And letting these smoke rings lock the monkeys in your brain.
The weight of the world
Is in the me-lessness without you.
It is in this stretchedness.
The weight of the world
Hold my hand;
to the vortex
and let’s just turn and turn and turn and turn
and make it all black.
Never let go
of our hands so joined in this
light sucking tangerined black.
close your eyes.
and you will see.
golden firefly fairies
forming You, Me
and all the words in between.
All the words that got scattered into the gyre like tiny red seeds before they were remembered,
stuck on the ceiling fan.
it turns too.
right to the black dot in the centre.
we’re in it.
This is just to say
in the ice box
that you ate
and so sweet
for you to enjoy
Note to the reader:
This particular poem is in response to William Carlos Williams’s quite famous poem “This is just to say”. And it can be found here: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/just-say
Everyone has that one place that they hold dear to heart. The place where they are confident on getting around even if they were to be rendered blind. And then an old photograph pops up on Facebook, and suddenly you are confused because you can’t peg where the photograph was taken. You feel like you are standing in the beach, too close to where the sea and land make love, and the earth is constantly washed off from beneath your feet. And you realize that the place that is so dear to your heart is slowly being washed away, without you even being aware of it.
It is pulsing.
Too thick to let go.
And so it throbs.
A reminder of an incessant knocking
At the bottom of your spine
That won’t back off.
(You can squeeze your eyes shut until you see stars on the ceiling of your eyelids)
But, still there.
And you live with it.
Your cross to bear.
See? There is so, so much in a name.
It is all the difference.
It is the difference between that which we call a back ache,
And the pulsing.
Mind numbing, abacinating, scamperring
Let me discount the ways,
Memory by memory, little by little –
Let me go back
To the before the beginning of all the counting.
I discount the way
Men go in search of their lost coins.
I discount to stitch my lost pieces into a quilt for when the counting gets tough.
Let me discount so that I can start counting again.