“After Twelve Days of Rain” by Dorianne Laux (repost)


(read by Christy)

I couldn’t name it, the sweet
sadness welling up in me for weeks.
So I cleaned, found myself standing
in a room with a rag in my hand,
the birds calling time-to-go, time-to-go.
And like an old woman near the end
of her life I could hear it, the voice
of a man I never loved who pressed
my breasts to his hips and whispered
“My little doves, my white, white lilies.”
I could almost cry when I remember it.

I don’t remember when I began
to call everyone “sweetie,”
as if they were my daughters,
my darlings, my little birds.
I have always loved too much,
or not enough. Last night
I read a poem about God and almost
believed it—God sipping coffee,
smoking cherry tobacco. I’ve arrived
at a time in my life when I could believe
almost anything.

Today, pumping gas into my old car, I stood
hatless in the rain and the whole world
went silent—cars on the wet street
sliding past without sound, the attendant’s
mouth opening and closing on air
as he walked from pump to pump, his footsteps
erased in the rain—nothing
but the tiny numbers in their square windows
rolling by my shoulder, the unstoppable seconds
gliding by as I stood at the Chevron,
balancing evenly on my two feet, a gas nozzle
gripped in my hand, my hair gathering rain.

And I saw it didn’t matter
who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone.
The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty
of the Iranian attendant, the thickening
clouds—nothing was mine. And I understood
finally, after a semester of philosophy,
a thousand books of poetry, after death
and childbirth and the startled cries of men
who called out my name as they entered me,
I finally believed I was alone, felt it
in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo
like a thin bell. And the sounds
came back, the slish of tires
and footsteps, all the delicate cargo
they carried saying thank you
and yes. So I paid and climbed into my car
as if nothing had happened—
as if everything mattered — What else could I do?

I drove to the grocery store
and bought wheat bread and milk,
a candy bar wrapped in gold foil,
smiled at the teenaged cashier
with the pimpled face and the plastic
name plate pinned above her small breast,
and knew her secret, her sweet fear—
Little bird. Little darling. She handed me
my change, my brown bag, a torn receipt,
pushed the cash drawer in with her hip
and smiled back.

Dorianne Laux, What We Carry. BOA Editions Ltd. (December 20, 2013).

*originally posted April 2, 2016

“I am fifty four years old, the age my mother was when she died. … (repost)


(read by Christy)

“I am fifty four years old, the age my mother was when she died. This is what I remember: We were lying on her bed with a mohair blanket covering us. I was rubbing her back, feeling each vertebra with my fingers as a rung on a ladder. It was January, and the ruthless clamp of cold bore down on us outside. Yet inside, Mother’s tenderness and clarity of mind carried its own warmth. She was dying in the same way she was living, consciously.

“I am leaving you all my journals,” she said, facing the shuttered window as I continued rubbing her back. “But you must promise me that you will not look at them until after I am gone.”

I gave her my word. And then she told me where they were. I didn’t know my mother kept journals.

A week later she died. That night, there was a full moon encircled by ice crystals.

On the next full moon I found myself alone in the family home. I kept expecting Mother to appear. Her absence became her presence. It was the right time to read her journals. They were exactly where she said they would be: three shelves of beautiful clothbound books; some floral, some paisley, others in solid colors. The spines of each were perfectly aligned against the lip of the shelves. I opened the first journal. It was empty. I opened the second journal. It was empty. I opened the third. It, too, was empty, as was the fourth, the fifth, the sixth – shelf after shelf after shelf, all my mother’s journals were blank.”

– Terry Tempest Williams
When Women Were Birds: Fifty-four Variations on Voice

*originally posted March 21, 2014

 

“Antilamentation” by Dorianne Laux (repost)


(read by Christy)

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook, not
the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication, not
the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punch line, the door or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don’t regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the living room couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the window.
Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation.
Relax. Don’t bother remembering any of it. Let’s stop here,
under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

~ Dorianne Laux, from The Book of Men: Poems

originally posted: 8/30/2014

“The Light That Shines When Things End” by I Wrote This For You (repost)

I hope that in the future they invent a small golden light that follows you everywhere and when something is about to end, it shines brightly so you know it’s about to end.

And if you’re never going to see someone again, it’ll shine brightly and both of you can be polite and say, “It was nice to have you in my life while I did, good luck with everything that happens after now.”

And maybe if you’re never going to eat at the same restaurant again, it’ll shine and you can order everything off the menu you’ve never tried. Maybe, if someone’s about to buy your car, the light will shine and you can take it for one last spin. Maybe, if you’re with a group of friends who’ll never be together again, all your lights will shine at the same time and you’ll know, and then you can hold each other and whisper, “This was so good. Oh my God, this was so good.”

~ I Wrote This For You (Iain S. Thomas). (His book on Amazon.)

 

originally posted: 12/20/14

“Reasons Not to Kill Yourself” by Hannah Renée (repost)

  • At some point, you will hug someone so hard that you cry and the two of you will feel as if you are becoming one person. Hold on a little longer.
  • There are so many books left to read and books left to write and, no matter what you may believe, your story is worth writing down.
  • The sun doesn’t shine some days but, when it does, everybody’s day is brighter because of it. Think of yourself as the sun and ask yourself where the earth would be without you.
  • Fireworks don’t display their colors immediately after they are launched. It takes time before their true beauty is revealed. Some things take time.
  • Some time in your life, you will hold someone’s hand and they will tell you that they love you or that they need you or both. You will begin to feel as if you were never broken.
  • Music.
  • Think of all the lazy Sundays or Wednesdays or any days where you decide to sleep in and stay in your pajama pants and fluffy socks all day.
  • For movie marathons with your best friend where you forget to watch the movies because you’re too busy catching up and listening to stories and bitching about all the people who the two of you can’t stand.
  • Sometimes creatures outgrow their shells and need to find a new one. Take a deep breath and find a new person or place to call home. This time, try considering your own body your home.
  • Snakes shed layers of their skin Maybe you need to do the same.
  • Some lizards and starfish can regenerate lost limbs. What many people don’t know is that humans can do the same. No matter how much life hurts you, you will always grow back.
  • Trees drop their leaves every single year but they always wait around for spring to come so that they can bloom again. Every year they come back stronger than before.
  • There are beautiful things in this world that you can’t even imagine. Mountains, rivers, canyons, auroras, oceans, landmarks, cities, people, etc. Do not end your own life until you have seen them all.

Hannah Renée

 

originally posted: 9/19/2014