Ok, let’s cut to the chase! I am going to speak your language and write unwritten poetry, And curse, And scream, And use words a poetess shouldn’t be proud of.
Mother of all lost souls, That’s what you called me. Let me be straight about this one – you’re right. But there is a subtle nuance to it, One you are not aware of since you’re only aware of universal truths, Facts, good old facts, All reason and science.
It’s not a bad thing, being the mother of all lost souls, It’s actually a noble thing, Some sort of hushed suffering, One I have merrily welcomed a long time ago. Because, you see, being alive has its pros and cons, Its peaks and valleys, Its wonders and nightmares, As you too well know.
Life kicks you hard, you said, Throws you to the ground, And children shouldn’t be lifted by their parents when they fall, Because thus they’re unprepared for life, Always cared for and soothed when life does no such thing.
Well, here is the subtle nuance: When your parents haven’t lifted you from the ground, You hardened. You ignored your Heart and listened to your Mind, You toughened. Your Brain hasn’t disappointed you, Whilst your Heart made you weak.
When my parents haven’t lifted me from the ground, Not because they didn’t want to, but because they were too busy with themselves, I softened. I listened to my Heart, my Soul, My only true companion, And that gave me power. Power to outgrow my pain, To escape it not by becoming a victim, But by becoming a saviour.
And trust me, boy, saving others is far more challenging than saving yourself, Maybe not saving them, but … caring about them. And trying to help, Even if help might mean losing your peace. Because, you see, what use does peace have when you can’t share it with others?
I might as well seem fragile to you, Every human being has a breaking point, you said, That’s definitely true! Again, a universal truth, one that has been scientifically proven. You seemed to care when you said that, In your unbreakable, durable way. But…
To quote the classics, The ones you’ve never heard of, such as hip-hop artists and tv-series actors, I am a violent woman. Any goodness that prevails in me is because of the love I have for her, my sister. And, let me warn you: If anything happens to her, I will drag you to the beach – Le Temps d’un été, I will cut your skull open, Feed your brain to the seagulls And let you live without your Reason – See what happens then. When all you can count on is your Heart, The one that disappointed you so many times That you decided to fucking ignore it.
Because you see, boy, Having your Heart lead your life Is an act of courage, Not one of weakness. Have you ever been so vulnerable that your knees felt weak, Your pulse broke records And threatened to make your heart explode? Have you ever shown yourself to another human being in such a way that There was nothing, absolutely nothing, between you and another soul, No physical matter, No shame, No boundaries? Have you ever made love to another human being in such a state that Your body felt … Limbless, Limitless, Listless, Loreless, Lifeless?
No, you have not! Because your life is all predictable, Calculable, Foreseen, Very well and in advanced prepared, All reason and braincells! Mine is the exact opposite. Is that a bad thing? Does that make me weak? Am I closer to my breaking point than you are? Well, I’ve seen yours, A couple of days ago, Not a pretty sight, An immature, emotionally poor, sorrowful state of being!
So… Let us part by saying nothing to each other. But remember this: Le Temps d’un été…
Dinna fash! It’s an old Scots word meaning to wander with no particular intent, To roam, stroll idly, some would even say around twilight, When the sun is soft, translucent, When the air is still and perfumed, a trifle pinkish or reddish, The sun rays allowing themselves some rest before … temporarily dying.
So … I have been stravaigin for almost forty years now. It’s a wonder I’ve made it so far! I know people in my family who haven’t, despite the quite favourable circumstances of their lives. Today it’s actually the last day of my fortieth year of life; [I am not forty YET, you do the math!]
A milestone, A waypoint, A turning point perhaps! A moment for myself to take stock. So… [my apologies for the amount of coordinating conjunctions in my poems, not very professional!] Who am I? What have I done so far?
I am… I am a bookkeeper’s and an engineer’s daughter, I am, against all odds, very bad at Math and exact sciences, I am quite proficient in a couple of languages, I am a teacher, I am an educator, I am [quietly trying to become] a poet, I am a mother, a loving, affectionate, tender, devoted mother, And I am a child, I used to be an invisible one, but God granted me light, and I have discovered [after thirty-nine years] how to use it, Not to fill my own invisibility, but to shed it on others. My light is colourless, neither transparent, nor opaque, It’s just … there for the ones who choose to see it.
I am my family’s history, Their sins, Their struggles, Some have drowned themselves in a river, Some others survived. I am my mother’s pain, Her ceaselessly worrying about the whole world, The poverty, the hunger, the natural disasters, the cancer, the loss, the grief. I am my mother’s blessing, The only one she has been granted In this storm of a life she has so far lived.
I am love. Love for books, Love for children, Love for people, Love for my family, Love for music, Love for Adi, And his family, Love for my sister [she’s a cousin but a sister to me] Love for my friends, My dear Monique and Marlene, Love for LIFE! [Against all odds]
Or maybe … I am! Nothing more or less. I exist, Hopelessly inconsistent, Vulnerable and strong, Cheerful and melancholic, Traumatised and healed [or healing], Fortunate to be here, and still always missing home.
A war, even one against yourself, Has no benefits. It took me thirty-nine years and three hundred and sixty-four days to learn this. It’s not enough to meet the right person, you have to meet them at the right time as well, That’s another lesson I’ve learned, But this poem is quite lengthy [all of them are], And I should stop here.
So … I have been stravaigin for almost forty years now, And life’s been good to me, And light has accompanied me everywhere, And I am! And that should be enough.
Improving my teaching, studying a new grammar method [an extraordinary one!]
That’s what we teachers do – we improve!
Or at least we try to..
Always creating a better version of yourself as an educator,
Always looking for a way to transfer knowledge, and, most importantly, to transfer your heart.
Ripping it out of your chest and giving it to others,
Your hands dripping blood,
Your chest an empty cave that used to host life…
[Don’t take it too seriously, it’s a metaphor!]
I’m a teacher, probably one for life, and I am a researcher.
Ceaselessly and obsessively looking for answers,
For that one little piece of veracity, genuineness, candid truthfulness [this is probably a pleonasm but we, teachers, always use more words than are necessary to convey meaning]
I have been looking for answers to ancient questions,
Questions that people used to ask before the question mark was even invented!
So … WHY?
Why did my mother get sick?
Why does she have to fight a monster that grows inside her body?
The same body I grew in…
Why does the Earth still spin around while she lays for hours in a hospital bed,
Her heart pumping chemotherapy drugs that are supposed to kill fast-growing cancer cells,
But also kill everything else they encounter in their way?
Why did the spring slowly but assuredly come while my mother’s grey hair has fallen out?
Chemo targets rapidly growing cells, I’ve been told, but also hair follicles,
My mother’s hair follicles!
So … why?
Why her?
Why any other mother? Or father? Or daughter? Or son? Or … whatever?
I’ve been quite busy the past … one year and a half.
Trying to swim in a dry lake bed,
Trying not to cry when all I feel is a desperate sorrow, a profound HATRED towards an invisible monster growing wings in my mother’s body!
And, trust me, I have never hated anyone or anything,
I’ve always been kind because that’s what my sacred mother has taught me to be.
She hasn’t taught me with words, but with deeds –
Her kindness towards others being a superpower and a curse at the same time.
There are no words for the poem I’m trying to write,
There are no words for the song I’m trying to sing,
There are no words for the PAIN I’m trying to explain because …
Pain, agony, torture, torment, soreness, ache just don’t lexically cover what I feel:
Helplessness, incapacity, powerlessness!
And, mark me, I have never been powerless!
I’ve survived my father’s suicide, loneliness, emptiness, loveless [if that is even a noun!]
So … before I start crying and never stop again,
Before this hatred takes over me,
I’m writing this poem,
A desperate cry for help
In the midst of a fight I am afraid I will never win.
Dead leaves, or perhaps vegetative souls in a crimson Purgatory.
I was on a plane once,
Flying home [whatever that might be],
And the sky was all reddish-brown, orange-yellow, bright pink and phosphorescent blue.
I reckoned that there, floating in the sky, human souls were gathering.
Former people of all shapes and sizes.
It made me think about Angels in America, Tony Kushner.
Probably one of the most beautiful things ever written.
‘Night flight to San Francisco; chase the moon across America. God, it’s been years since I was on a plane. When we hit thirty-five thousand feet, we’ll have reached thetropopause, the great belt of calm air, as close as I’ll ever get to the ozone. I dreamed we were there (…) I saw something only I could see because of my astonishing ability to see such things. Souls were rising from the earth far below, souls of the dead, of people who had perished, from famine, from war, from the plague, and they floated up, like skydivers in reverse, limbs all akimbo, wheeling and spinning. And the souls of these departed joined hands, clasped ankles and formed a web, a great net of souls, and the souls were three-atom oxygen molecules of the stuff of ozone, and the outer rim absorbed them and was repaired. Nothing’s lost forever. In this world, there is a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we’ve left behind and dreaming ahead. At least I think that’s so.’
No one has probably ever quoted prose in a poem.
A kind of painful progress,
Always longing for someone or something we’ve left behind.
A Town, a lost feeling, somewhere in between acting and delaying,
That famous Waiting Place,
‘…for people just waiting. Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go or the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow or the waiting around for a Yes or No or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting.
Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for the wind to fly a kite or waiting around for Friday night or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil, or a Better Break or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants or a wig with curls, or Another Chance. Everyone is just waiting.’
No one has probably ever quoted Dr. Seuss in a poem.
Ruska,
Autumn foliage,
And together with it,
Autumn colours.
Sepia,
The colour of the North Sea in Edinburgh,
A sea so unfriendly, cold, and dark,
Mysterious fish in its depths.
Russet,
The colour of the redbrick houses in the Surrogate-Country,
So welcoming from the outside,
So cold and formal on the inside,
Nothing like the rustic, homely, simple houses from my Mother-Country,
So unwelcoming from the outside,
So warm on the inside.
Amber,
A dark yellow-orange,
The colour of antique stones,
A kind reminiscence of a lost world.
Gamboge,
That vivid yellow that leaves tend to take just before they die.
Scarlet,
The colour of an offensive sin,
One we’re all guilty of.
‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’
Book of Isaiah
No one has probably ever quoted the Scripture in a poem.
Deep purplish reds,
Crimson and carmine,
‘Though your sins be red like crimson, they shall be as wool’.
Book of Isaiah,
Again.
A raging crimson tempest,
An autumn wind taking revenge on the ephemeral summer,
No one has probably ever quoted Shakespeare in a poem.
Maroon,
The colour of chestnuts,
Those collected by children accompanied by their grandmas,
In parks,
On a peaceful autumn afternoon,
When the wind has settled.
Auburn,
The colour of Jamie’s hair,
Lurid,
The colour of diseased skin,
The colour of my mother’s skin the past few months,
Since she’s been ill.
Carnelian,
A reddish-orange brownish red,
The colour of a layer in one of my neighbour’s cakes,
One that only children from my Mother-Country know of.
cristinawinters 