journal no. 4: moi, s'il vous plait

the melody



i'm so tired of words. always words, words, words spinning in my head. failing to translate my pain to poetry. how useless language has become to me. i crave action. not description. when i feel utterly happy i wish to laugh and laugh until i cry. and when i am pensive i should like to remain silent and study figures and nature. if i desire to learn something new, let me sit and study and think. when i am angry i beg to roar and punch and scream and claw. to e x p r e s s. to feel honestly and not to manipulate or lie or filter my psyche. i beg to be me.

a reading

Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths / Enwrought with golden and silver light / The blue and the dim and the dark cloths / Of night and light and the half light / I would spread the cloths under your feet: / But I, being poor, have only my dreams; / I have spread my dreams under your feet; / Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. - W. B. Yeats

Icarus By Name

            Light   

                         So succulent and warm.

Arms that open  w  i  d  e  and tell me I am home.

 I cannot bat my wings hard enough

            To satisfy the way

                        My

                                    Heart is feeling.

“Don’t go!” They cry

            “It’s not…

                        They lie

                                    …The thing that you are seeking!”

But how can they know

                        Oh

                                                They mustn’t know

                                                                                                The cold, the bitter evening

I cannot reach it fast enough

            To prove that it

                        Is        

                                                Freeing.

I rest my wings,

My head,

My heart,

Upon the open flame

                                    And I was right, oh I was right

I’ll                   never               be                    the                   same.

            The                  pain                 will                  pass,

This time won’t last

It’s like when I was small

                        And wrapped myself  

                                                            In silken cloth

                                                                                                Emerging from the wall

I wonder what will come from this?

            The light, the precious glow               perhaps those wings

Those p          

            r

             e

               t t y things that glitter when they go…

it’s funny,

                        ha

                                    I cannot feel the wind upon my back

And like before,

            My wings are still and all the world is                b  l  a  c  k.