vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (Default)
Poetry is not a language of peaceableness
it fights and clamors and wrenches itself free
it gnaws on itself as the serpent
gnaws on Yggdrasil

Yet I am peaceable now, and happy
my self's foundation cemented with love
the butterfly grace of acceptance
and a rock's patient ears

So the poetry of my tongue is stilled
it has no battles to draw it out
no twisting agonies to drive it
no wars to wage

I do not regret losing my pain with my tongue.
vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (Default)
I have never been this happy
as a grown-up

I have my moments past
of a child's happiness
fleeting heartbeats
of flying joys

they never lasted

But this happiness buoys me
surrounds my life
Not a place I flee to
but a place I stand in

I've found my feet
you won't kick them out from under me
so I don't stand as tall as you
you will hold out a steadying arm
and make sure I'm standing, too

You ask
You listen
You love silence

Did you find me because it was time?
Did I find you because I'm finally able to stand?

Or were men like you always around
And I too blind to see?
vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (bujold -- choose to be)
I tried to frighten you away
   with my catalog of flaws and failures
   my frightful shames and hypocricies
It had always worked before

You gathered each one up, looked at it, and said
  I am not perfect and neither are you

I tried to box you away
   into some definable category
   that didn't involve me
   being loved
It had always worked before

I was allowed to love, and hopelessly
   for that was what I knew
   and deserved
   to be pouring out always
   and never refilled
   I was taught was my place
It had always been before

To be loved, for myself, as myself
   not as the weekend warrior
   but the farmer's daughter
To have her loved, for all her flaws and failures
   her shames and hypocricies
   was a terror

I -- she -- we kept waiting
   for the push away
   the awkward silence
   the sudden avoidance
   the end
   planned for it, brought it into being
   there would be no surprises
It had always worked before

You didn't change, you only said
  I am not perfect and neither are you

That had never happened before

The child crying "Mama?" in my dark
calls a little less often
she might be starting to believe
Mama lied
vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (bujold -- choose to be)
   from a distance
   is a vast and dimly featured plain

When we do not live there.

Its deep throes are vague shadows
   more frightening from their lack of boundaries
   their insubstantial edges full of formless terrors

Its bright joys are burning pyres
   too dangerous to touch
   too beautiful to turn away from

This foreign country
   where others, advancing, told us we were unwelcome
   so here at the distance, we stayed
   waiting for the invitation, the outstretched hand
   that said, "Come"

Never knowing
   no invitations are needed

Love is a country
   we each walk to ourselves.
vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (minerva in mist)

"I don't want him dead. I just want him behind me. Miles and years.
I think about him every day, and I don't want to. Dead would be even worse, for that."

                     -- Fawn Bluefield, Beguilement, Lois McMaster Bujold

Dead would be worse, for that, o yes

...perhaps knowing you did not exist in the world
       that the illness in your mind could no longer be spread
       would ease my mind
       console my heart from your selfishness
       and the cruelties your terrors led you to inflict

...perhaps you are already dead
       murdered drug by drug
       seizure by seizure
       electric fire through your brain
       burning out the circuits of moderation, reason, balance
       allowing pain and paranoia to swarm the ruins

...perhaps you never were
       that being of reason, lucidity, sense
       a façade training gave you, or natural bent,
       to manipulate, mislead, beguile
       letting you run away from the thing you trembled to be
       yet always were

...perhaps you are and have always been Rochester's secret
       locked away in the attic
       setting a world ablaze to cut all your commitments, obligations, constraints
       and in the madness of your self-destruction
       lacerating my spirit
       puncturing my heart
       setting me free

...perhaps I should thank you

vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (bujold -- choose to be)

In the first year
             I believed everything

In the second year
             you began to reveal yourself
             baiting me with deliberate gaps
                           disparaging me when I bit
             all interaction under your rules alone
                           sans compromise, sans negotiation
              friendship a word
                              only you were allowed to define

In this third year
              I have spiraled back
              to a life without you
                              the spaces in my life you’d shouldered into and been evicted from
                              slump together and heal closed
                                              as tissue spills back into the cavity
                                              when a tumor is cut away

No one else has noticed
I can still feel the scar.

vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (bujold -- choose to be)

The folder shuffled around my desk
for over a year
opened up and read whenever
I thought I needed bleeding
and old pains savoured
rolled about in my heart’s mouth
like merlot.

I’d suspected you wouldn’t come
for all your declarations
I’d suspected your bravado would desert you
rather than attempt siege in my home
at the fortress of my face.

The rainstorm made the ink run
on your letters, the pages from my journal,
the form with your signature
soaked and stubborn to burn

I watched each brown and blacken
watched your name steam and curl
and be consumed.

I went inside and closed the door.
The scent of fire clings to me still.

vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (bujold -- choose to be)

When you arrived in town
          you left your doors wide open
          hoping we would all wander in and out
          see the place
          and love it

          for all your talk of staying open
          those doors began to close
          some just as I was walking through
                    bruising my cheekbone
                    wounding my breast

          I was barely allowed on the porch
          while other friends
          were invited in
                    and I had to watch the party
                    through the picture window

After that
          I might hesitate on the sidewalk, passing by
          but I didn’t stop anymore
          I didn’t climb the steps anymore
          I didn’t look in the window
                    I didn’t ask other friends
                    if they’d been over, lately

Last week
         you stood on the porch and hailed me
         taken aback
         I came to the foot of your steps and replied
                   then came to myself
                   and hurried on my way

         you stopped at my home
         and asked for help
         I pretended I wasn’t there
                   so you went away again
                   leaving a letter

I don’t know whether to answer it
Or pretend it never arrived.

vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (candle on the water)

I am tired
     weary, battered, walloped and wrecked

I am tired
     like a Midwest town
          in the trail of a twister
     looking for all the bits of me
          how did my boot end up in the chimney
          my heart spattered across the walls

I am tired
     of you
     dragging through my life
          uprooting all my trees
          unroofing my home
     turning my skies green
     leaving a sea of debris behind you

But I never told you

My soul was in the storm cellar
And you never touched it.

vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (Default)

With my list of "don'ts"
     and my scattered fragility
I am just too... too
     most find the gifts I offer
     insufficient compensation
For them
     there will only be relief
     when I am buried and gone

I bear few surprises to myself
     frustrations, rebellions, contempts, O yes
     but few surprises
Usually I know 
I leap right or leap left under this or that provocation
     but not what to do with what I know

I can hold it in my hand
     this connection between issues
     tell you its shape, finish, corrosion and color
     how it fits beneath my fingers

But no one has come by to say
          "That's a bolt"
     nor hand me a rachet set
All this I derive from context and struggle to determine:
     Standard or Metric?

Or hacksaw?

vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (bujold -- choose to be)
As the door to you spirals shut
     as it does
          month by month
               drug by drug 
                    silence by silence
I must ask who closes it
     you -- or I?

O I fear that spiraling shut
          that closing out
          for I had chosen to keep loving you
     though it has brought such pain
          and so very, very little joy

So I learn
     it is not the closing out I fear
     as much as the un-choosing which shadows it

If I choose
     to un-love you
     what does that say about me?
     Is my heart too inconstant
          if I can un-choose to love
          and walk away?
     that am I too flawed

So I do not fear you
     or the losing of you
     So much as I fear
          the losing of

For while I miss my friend
     whom I love(d?)
I do not miss
     missing my friend
I do not miss
     missing the hugs
     the kind words
     the smiles
          spread to all except me
I do not miss
     missing the friendship
          that all the rest have
               save I

If I choose to un-love you
     and do not fear myself inconstant...

If I choose to un-love you
     and do not fear my lovingness overspent on you...

If I choose to un-love you
     if I am not the friend
          who, without hope or recompense, loves you...

Who am I?
vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (candle on the water)

Call it revenge, if you like
or desperation
that scrabbling desire to see, to feel, to know
that we each have had an effect on the world
but a world made one person wide
and hanging the whole thing there like a sodden trenchcoat

Acceptance validates that scrabble
rejection blows it inside out and throws it away
throws us away, disposable, powerless, useless
leaving broken aluminum branches, torn skins, tangled threads
and debris

And if we can raise no hymnal
raise no chant to the joy in the world
that you would sing along with
if love and companionship, if full virtues
are denied us, and we must live only by such half-measures
of friendship and good deeds
and fade, unacknowledged and powerless

Call it longing, if you like
or re-action, equal and opposite
that if we can be so moved and shaken off our feet
where storms collide in our hearts and drop funnel clouds amongst friends
that your heart is no less shaken and stumbling
no less devastated
than our own

vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (Default)

O Tell Me The Truth About Love

Some say that love's a little boy,

And some say it's a bird,

Some say it makes the world go round,

And some say that's absurd,

And when I asked the man next-door,

Who looked as if he knew,

His wife got very cross indeed,

And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pajamas,

Or the ham in a temperance hotel?

Does its odour remind one of llamas,

Or has it a comforting smell?

Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,

Or soft as eiderdown fluff?

Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?

O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it

In cryptic little notes,

It's quite a common topic on

The Transatlantic boats;

I've found the subject mentioned in

Accounts of suicides,

And even seen it scribbled on

The backs of railway-guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,

Or boom like a military band?

Could one give a first-rate imitation

On a saw or a Steinway Grand?

Is its singing at parties a riot?

Does it only like Classical stuff?

Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?

O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;

it wasn't ever there:

I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,

And Brighton's bracing air.

I don't know what the blackbird sang,

Or what the tulip said;

But it wasn't in the chicken-run,

Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?

Is it usually sick on a swing?

Does it spend all it's time at the races,

Or fiddling with pieces of string?

Has it views of its own about money?

Does it think Patriotism enough?

Are its stories vulgar but funny?

O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning

Just as I'm picking my nose?

Will it knock on my door in the morning,

Or tread in the bus on my shoes?

Will it come like a change in the weather?

Will its greeting be courteous or rough?

Will it alter my life altogether?

O tell me the truth about love.

W.H. Auden

When it comes, will it come without warning

Just as I'm picking my nose?


Cool poem

Aug. 29th, 2008 08:57 am
vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (Default)

Loving the Odd Child
Copyright 2006 Anne Allanketner 

The everyday child needs socks and sandwiches
Her hair combed, yes
And time to play, people to love.
The everyday child needs constant care
From you so keep her warm and kindly sheltered, nourished, held. 

But it’s caring for the odd one, which makes us
whole again, after long confusions, blundering
and wishing she were normal. 

Love that little odd child, and you will flower
in unexpected ways, veering off the path
that others gave you, to carved new and tender
territory in the mysterious, dark wood. 

Give that little odd child what she needs:
a softer lamp light, all day at the zoom
Art supplies for breakfast, an early
Exit from the loud party. 

Maybe she wants things you think are strange
But just believe in her, let her hold those
tiny tree frogs, let her climb down off your lap
to gather strange objects, her weird collections…

Her need for books, her fear of people
crushing plants, her awkward dislike of
your friends, her terribly low
pain threshold.

Gather each of these up in time, and kiss them.
Then put them down in front of her, loved.
This is the new path, taking your away
from normal and towards your SELF.

Towards the life you deeply long for
Towards the odd work, the odd lover, the odd house. 

You were afraid that if you gave into her,
There would be no end to it
And that is true
For the odd child is a wild and tempting
shamaness, who given an inch will rise up
dancing and gather you in arms and sing
her throaty off-key melodies as she
winds her way through the wood and steps 

Into her odd place in the bright and peopled world.
There she will shift the balance in some small
and significant way that only she can understand
having changed you so completely into yourself
she is unafraid
to reinvent
the world.

vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (bujold -- choose to be)

Pain is an old comrade
          almost friend-like, these days, familiar
          lurking, always present, waiting
          familiarity breeding its own children, of sorts:
                    habits of fear and withdrawal
          more acted upon, these days, than felt

Emptiness is a rapidly growing intimate
          not born of nor begetting despair, mind you
          a post-explosion langour
                    an absence and a silence
                    and a peace

Pain can fill a world, you see
Emptiness can wash it clean and echo there
          is never big enough

Happiness is...
          well, I hardly know
          could not tell you what it is
          other than what it is

Happiness is a single shining penny dropped in a canning jar
          a canning jar pain silts up
          and emptiness clears out
                    the baby with its bathwater
                    no pain. no penny

And you, you stick around
          because pain clings, silts in
          never lets go until forcibly evicted, rinsed out
There has never been happiness in the jar of you
          only fantasies of feeling it
          daydreaming pennies tumbling in like slot machines
          pouring in happiness so fast some bounces right back out
But no
There sits the jar, your jar, half-silted, half-empty
          and the only penny in it
          is the memory of the echo I once daydreamed
          filling the glass

And I clutch the canning jar, wondering
          is it worth keeping
          what would it be like
                    to throw your echo away?

vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (bujold -- choose to be)
 You still speak
     the words you think
     I want to hear
Not understanding
     I have put them aside
     put you aside
          with the other childish things

You still act
     as if I had expectations
     of you, to do and to speak
Not understanding
     I have put those aside
     expectations, hopes, maybes and some days
          and Now is all that is

You still seem
     to believe your approval
     is the navel of my universe
Not understanding
     I released you months ago
     looked within, clasped hands, pulled
          and freed myself

You still demand
     a friend's forbearances
     and sacrifices
Not understanding
     that friendship was the one country
     we couldn't talk ourselves into
          we never rode the same rails

You still abjure
     that our trains were headed in different directions
     yours to shrouded cities, mine to revelation
Not understanding
     I am no longer grieving, abject, frantic
     that I missed your train
          and was forced to take my own

You still have not realized
     that I am finally happy on my train
     filled with beauties I have just begun to see
Not understanding
     that if we meet at another station, I am well
     that if we never meet again, I am well
          though you breathe still
vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (bujold -- choose to be)

Ready to offer a whole heart
and turned away at the palisade

Thus, the offer was rescinded
and rather than a whole heart...
none of it
not even a friend's allotment

No, no news of joys or sorrows fall
to the hearing heart behind those fortifications
not to that beating muscle
nor its tale-bearing allies
no news
no raw truths
only the even contented tones
the smooth gripless surface
of inane politesse
and void

But no need to storm the fortifications
already empty, abandoned
its defenders prepared already
to be absent
to be dead

So this path was shown by example
how this obscuring and absence is done
withdrawals and withholdings
distractions, disappearances, denials
and silence

This is merely doing the courtesy
of returning the favor

vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (vesta goddess pic)

How tenuous is that boundary
between acceptance
and indifference
between ahhh...
and huh?

How nebulous is that difference
between the unshaken center
and the untouched one
between oh no
and too bad

That boundary
so close
and so porous
that it is easy to slip sideways
unshaken but moved
being harder to balance
and harder to remember why

Yet when the boundary is firm
the walls of indifference are fallen
the center remains
the world whirls about mad and frantic
and the hub lets it spin

I am becoming the hub of the world
and you no longer move me

vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (bujold -- choose to be)

"It took more than one man to change my name to Shanghai Lily."
                                                -- Marlene Dietrich, Shanghai Express

in that breathless moment before the fall
as the dancer at the height of her jete
the plane at apogee

prepared to plummet but never falling
set to slide but never sinking
a stasis of grace

with a barb in the quiver and another on the bow
the arch comeback, the tommygun snark
a Hays Code workaround

yours as holy as hers
casting unspeaking shadows across the now
and the after

does not mean safe
does not mean open

is the only sin left

vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (candle on the water)

Death, I am told, is a thief
stealing away time
and the treasures of a life-

an enemy
who comes with a bang or a whimper
with one soft exhale
or the crinkle-crunch of steel turning accordion
I am told

Death, I am told, is a lover
making flowers more sweet
colors brighter
smiles warmer

a friend
who comes when you call her
always listens
and keeps the secrets she is given
I am told

But death, I am thinking, simply is
and no direct object need apply
no word
just punctuation
and whether period or comma
is still a question mark


vesta_aurelia: Fangirl your Armor (Default)

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