Dusk, a pocketful of dust – the old rhyme of time re-re-repeats itself once more. I watch the corners of the sky fold into night, peeling black as I sit slack across the broken jaw of the day. My mind’s wearing thin, fraying at the edges, catching voices in its tendrils – atmospheric// //interference.
.
O my people, I hear your cries – I spit your lies and scratch your truths into ether. Your unheard words weather the storms of sick seas to reach my ears. You play on fears; my hopes, my tears – your whispers whittle at flayed nerves. Is this what I deserve – the torment of seething sighs and fleeting tones bleating beneath the bones?
I am blessed with the unrest of an empty chest. At seven, I sang in circles of salt and sold my soul to the sea.
It was out of that blue that you grew - you knew what you could do to a girl with a hole in her heart, marked as prey, with all the right symptoms: the crystal fractures, the split- ends, the fresh-cut kether of broken teeth or hair. You tore my peace to pieces, ate my prayers like air.
O my people: my breathless voices, my hollow hauntings, spilt blood of none: I am un- done
.
Now our burnout eyes will watch embers rise and /split/ the husk of the sun –
* * *
Paracusia - otherwise known as auditory hallucinations // hearing voices.
Although it used to be believed that only the mentally ill heard voices (it is a common symptom of schizophrenia), recent research has shown that as many as one in twenty-five people regularly hears voices.
Mine just like to have fun with language...
Once again, blogger hates my formatting, so please go and view the poem in its proper format here. It's not that different, but it makes a difference to me!
So I spent my last day of childhood making faerie wings; a fitting use of my time, methinks. I'm having an Emilie Autumn-esque faerie-themed midnight tea party later this week. I can't understand why more teenagers don't celebrate their birthdays in this way... I'm probably just way ahead of the trend, or something. As usual.
And I'm sure every eighteen year old should receive Disney dvds for their birthday too. I swear Robin Hood is one of the most underrated Disney films ever!
Today I found a message in a bottle, its words smooth, rounded pebbles beneath the tongue, verbal apostles torn from our tangled tree- root syntax by the sea. It read:
{We have found sounds that bridge oceans, we have borne mornings out of sunsets, we have grown bones of icarus wings, yet we cannot see beyond the glass: for we know why the caged bird dreams of charred ribs and sawdust - (we just try not to think about it).
Caught up in the jarring poetics of smart machines, paper bags and iron ore, we ignore the dreamdust, the cinereal. If we woke and tried to stretch our knotted limbs, our cries would catch on gnarled branches, sepia skies and spiders’ webs, and we’d realise that all the world’s a cage, and our sagely words are nothing more than flightless birds.}
Here, the message fades – the letters coil into spilt oil and singed soot has blackened the foot of the page. I look out to sea and see silver limbs skim the surface, before they sink and begin to claw at the ocean floor. The gilded veins of metal monsters snake across the water, reflected by our burntout sun.
And I am held by my own chained pebble poetry under that sore sky, for I can hear beyond the clamour of my bloodbeat to the space between the shoulder-blades that speaks volumes without sound. It says:
{Our mouths move, but our only song is silence. Even our breath is bound by blackened bones and clipped wings. We are broken things.}
- and over everything is a glass bell.
* * *
There are two sides to every story. Sometimes were are so caught up in staring at the bars of our gilded cages, we don't see what's on the otherside. It's the old battle of material / visceral vs. the spiritual, I guess, just set on a post-structuralist stage.
This took literally ages to write. It emerged out of many, many ideas (all my poems start off as a collection of random phrases / images I like the sound of), half of which are not actually in this poem. In fact, this is the secondary idea for the poem I originally started to write, which is now at the stage of fragmented thoughts. It was a bit too cluttered before, and nonsensical, so I hope that the message is now clearer.
i. Sunrise. Though muffled by the clouds of sound crackling over my head, I feel it: a sort of light, seeping through the soil. Hazed rays like roots, roots of light b r e a k i n g through, entwining my toes with earth.
My breath makes mists of momentary suspension, caught in the net of air.
ii. And every moment is like waking to skies of fly- specked grey and eyes opening – (breaking from my dreams that are badreams of circles closing around my chest, snapping sinews and scattering ash –
I always turn out to be hollowhearted).
My bones permeate sight unflinchingly. Matchstick limbs akimbo, saluting my (stifled) free- fall.
iii. I reach back into darkness, endlessly - my mind racing, trailing, scouring the star-eaten sky for secrets, traces of the truth that peel away as time transcends itself.
It rains, but the water’s rotten, full of moth-eaten holes, hazy with the sound of /dis-connection.
iv. There is a weight fixed between my heartbones – the wait is silence. How is the air so thick, so full, of emptiness? Time is incomplete, I am un- finished.
I’m digging deep, but all words and meaning are slipping away and
only the light is listening:
* * *
Consider this a sister piece to Flipside - Beneath the Sky, a much older poem of mine. Inspired by Toni Morrison's 'Beloved' (epic book, insane film - go read/watch it now!) and the song 'Digging Deep' by Jakalope.
By the way, Blogger will not let me use the correct formatting for this. To see the poem written as it should be (well, almost), please see it on my dA page.
If flesh is grass, then we are glass – grown curved into the crux of love, washed smooth by the spine of time. We are where our image met - my face, yours, f r a g m e n t e d by pores of light and the shells that collected in our eyepits, our outstretched palms. Born of the sea, and whitewashed ceilings that bore over you, punctured with eyes like stars: we have a bond that stretches beyond even death -
when the water will seal over your mouth, and my breath will make mosaics against the sky.
* * *
Ever since I heard this song by the Screaming Females, I wanted to write something called 'Mothership'.And I finally managed it! This was started in creative-writing club. In pairs, we were given a picture and were told to write something inspired by it. Phoeb and I were given a picture of a weird pottery and shell mosaic-thing, and this is what it inspired. Surreal musings on motherhood. Hmm...
Thank you so much to this hilarious episode of 'The White Hot Top Five' for inspiring this post.
This week there seems to have een a worrying influx of sexism stories in the media. Here are just a few of the most ridiculous ones.
So, the Winter Olympics are over for this year. Vancouver put on a great show, and the sport was exciting – I watched just about everything from ski cross to figure skating to ice hockey to the half pipe. But one sport I didn't get to see this Olympics was the women's ski jumping. And why'’s that? Well, even though men's ski jumping has been an Olympic sport since the winter Olympics began in 1924, women's ski jumping is still not an Olympic sport. And it's not that women don’t have an interest in it: it is a woman (Lindsay Van), in fact, who holds the world record for the event. Ski jumping events in which women can compete are held all over the world – there was one at the same venue used in the Olympics just a few weeks before the event – but for some (unknown – Olympic officials have offered no logic for this) reason, it is not an Olympic sport. Not that it's all that great for the women who can compete in sports. As I was saying in a conversation with J, sexism is rife in sports, with the women’s events often seen as a less important 'version' of the main, men's event. As a report in Sports Illustrated says:
"Sexism isn't confined to any sport or country. It's a universal language, spoken not so much with words as with action, or the lack of it. Female hockey players from many of the European countries competing in the Olympics, for instance, have seen their national federations' lopsided spending on the men's programs as a loud and clear message that they are considered mere afterthoughts. In Russia, where hockey is the national pastime, the women couldn't begin practicing until three weeks before the Games because of budget constraints."
OK, so if you can’t watch the sport without being confronted with blatant sexism, what can you watch? How about a film? Robert Pattinson has been all over the media this week promoting his new film ‘Remember Me’. But what got the most attention was an interview with him in ‘Details’ magazine, in which he said:
"I really hate vaginas. I’m allergic to vagina."
And this interview was accompanied by him surrounded by pictures of pornified naked women. Seriously. But seriously, Pattinson just proves a major misogynistic phenomenon that feminists from Germaine Greer to Jessica Valenti have been going on about since (it seems) time began: that men hate women’s biology. In Full Frontal Feminism, Valenti points out that the worst thing you can call someone is a woman: cunt, bitch, pussy, slut, etc. A man is not naturally any of these things – the word has to be altered to fit: thus 'whore' becomes 'manwhore' – masculine adjusted lexis from a supposedly feminine norm. So Pattinson, you are not 'allergic' to vagina, as you so charmingly put it. You are just an extremely misogynistic man. If you actually hated vaginas, you wouldn’t be straight. But then, gay / asexual guys don’t make sex-gods that 87% of women want to marry. Ugh.
So there's nothing to watch that’s not saturated with sexism. Why not listen to some music? But - le gasp! - it’s a trap! Music’s just as fucked up as the rest of pop culture. And a prime example of this is my favouritest person ever, Ke$ha. Words fail to describe what I feel about this latest pop music mistake. Could there be a worse role model for women in the music industry? I think not. Witness Exhibit A:
"I have very empowering lyrics for women."
HAHAHAHA... this is some kind of joke, right? Oh no, wait, there’s more? Do carry on...
"I kind of take how guys talk to women all over this industry and throw it back at them."
OK, so you take your inspiration from charming lyrics like 'you were supposed to love me, now bleed bitch bleed', 'I'ma own that pussy' and 'make sure it's not your bloody week, you slut'. And that’s empowering to whom, exactly?
"I'm literally just talking to a man the way any rapper talks about women in every rap song on the radio."
Oh I see. That makes total sense! Wtf, Ke$ha, did no one ever tell you that two wrongs don’t make a right? Sexist comments like that, whoever they are addressed to, are not empowering to anyone. They’re just sick and demeaning. Not to mention that your use of this 'tactic' fails anyway because it’s completely misguided. Let’s take a look at Exhibit B, shall we? These are some of the lyrics to your latest single, 'Blah Blah Blah':
'Boy come on give me rock stuff Come put a little love in my glove box'
You know, I’m all for women gaining sexual empowerment. And people like Lady Gaga are actually making a point in their lyrically sexual songs (I’m thinking 'Bad Romance' where some pimp-ring guy gets fried by Gaga’s flamethrower bra). But lyrics like that don’t work if you’re singing them whilst posing provocatively, flicking your hair and smiling seductively at this random guy that hanging creepily over you – the same guy who you claim to be a complete douchebag. You see, Ke$ha, you’ve got this strong and sexual woman thing all wrong. It’s OK to be sexually forward towards a guy you actually like, but that doesn’t mean you should throw yourself at any random creep that wants to sleep with you. Instead of empowering women, your lyrics actually portray women who choose to promote and condone demeaning, misogynistic attitudes. Way to go!
Phew, what a week! And that's just the latest addition to centuries of sexism.
You know that poem I wrote recently for another workshop, Monologue(s)? Well, for the second time in a row, I've been featured by the host in their summary of the workshop. The workshop was quite tough, but I received a lot of constructive feedback, for which I am very grateful.
And I've been featured again over at dA. This time in the lovely Lune Bleu's featured artists of the month. This is such a wonderful surprise, and I am honoured to make the list.
As far as general life and prospective updates are going, I'm pretty busy at the moment. Got far too many things planned for the next few weeks - on top of the disastrous mess that is my history coursework - so updates are likely to be few and far between. That said, there is another poem in the works - I just need to find the words and time to finish it off.
edit: Holyhell, I just got given a DLD (a feature by Daily Literature Deviations) and was made their Pick of theDay! I can't even describe how much win this entails! Squee! ♥
