super-late mega update

Here are the poems I submitted for my final folio in my Writing Poetry subject. There's a sonnet in there, so watch carefully! Some fiction, some faction, some familiar, some totally fresh. Enjoy!

imitation

Having never been aware

of the advent of wikipedia.org

I failed to prepare a suitable section for 'personal life',

being far too focussed on ruthless and bloodthirsty dictatorship.

The whimsical facts apparently so necessary for modern audiences eluded me, and all I can supply instead are the numbers of lives I took, while defending the voice of freedom.

Apparently though, I look good in a wig,

but everybody wore them,

so I'm not quite sure why that's surprising news.

In your time if a man wears a wig,

he's singled out for public blandishment,

as though it is right to demand a full head of hair til death do you part upon the altar of age.

But no! It is not right! I demand a fair trial!

A people's court!

The swish and spring of the guillotine!

Ah, Madame Guillotine, I always dressed for you in the finest of white stockings,

applauded your efforts to shave the unruly beard off the national escutcheon.

I also quite enjoy having a huge, weapon,

rising up above the crowd,

statuesque symbol of...

symbol of...

My advice to all future dictators is simple,

and garnered from my experience and that of my friends.

Don't allow young women to meet with you in your medicinal bath.

Don't shoot yourself in the jaw (it hurts).

Don't encourage the people into too many rash and swift executions, yours will be next.

Do however make as full use as possible of such words as 'committee', 'public' and 'safety', and I can recommend a little brandy in the morning

to get in you in the mood for

signing endless documents

and meeting with smelly men.

Spurned, or, Human Error

He was a barb:

a fragment of glass, swallowed accidentally.

He scraped first at her lips,

(her words caught)

next, her throat

(shredded, twisted into knots).

But it was the long, slow descent,

through metres and metres that nearly killed her:

internal bleeding the least of the worries

as they lay together,

(her heart screaming)

him sleeping, her distressed.

     Never had a minds meeting,

     never nothing but a near miss.

Childhood

When you were leaving,

and picking up your keys from the console table,

and rifling through your bag,

and going on about whether you’d need a taxi for this evening,

I wondered if I should tell you that

in my dreams last night

I floated on a magic carpet

in a scene not dissimilar the sequence in Aladdin

that we used to watch together

while mum cleaned the kitchen

and let us eat popcorn

and sang along loudly when we turned the music up.

I didn’t want to listen to the details of your day,

but remember the feeling

of flying without falling,

that even though,

usually,

sitting on a carpet is not exactly comfortable

for long periods of time,

in transit, this one felt

like a soft cushion of air,

plush fibres

and a large dose of subconscious recognition

that I was still lying on my own bed,

cradled by the extra, sheepskin layer I put on it in the winter,

and we used to speak of such things

when I was less anxious

and you were less busy

and we generally chatted

between our bunks 

after lights out in the evenings,

so pointless in daylight saving,

as the glow through the plastic venetians

continued to reveal the

shapes and textures of the room. 

In earnest voices we'd discuss

almost any thought that crossed our minds,

the way we felt when tuna-bake was served again

on silent Sundays, 

a gastronomic ritual we both disliked. 

We'd speak about the books we'd read

and I'd advise,

from my obvious maturity

the best way to deal with grandparents.

Are we grown-ups now, 

is that the problem?

The reason I can no longer speak

of frivolous dreams

and vague impressions?

Do suits impose a verbal prison from which

no ordinary words can be spoken,

only business mish mash and 

public speech?

You said, “goodbye, I'll see ya later”

closing the door before my reply. 

“My magic carpet's better than yours,

and I don't give a stuff about your boyfriend”

to the empty room,

the blank door, 

the missing voices. 

word to Derrida

You are a black hole,

whose centre is a vacuum. 

I am a solar system, 

whose centre is a sun.

for Paris

Not cold in her grave she lies,

but hot.

Baked back to clay by unforgiving sun.

Three days have passed,

but life's light does not sink down,

piercing thick layers of soil to touch her.

Life's light has not reached

her stiffening, suffocated body at all.

Her silent lips are mimicked now

by silent stares above.

She speaks not death's dark secrets,

while blind teachers disclose empty truths.

Platitudes.

Milk stuff,

to minds starved of meat,

so needed for their journey ahead.

Paris died.

Small child.

And every womb cried out,

empty arms groped for their beloved.

No no no no no no no.

Don't worry yourselves about it,

it didn't happen,

but it did,

so we should shut up now

and eat some chocolate.

Hallmark words will not revive her,

no kiss of life can now resuscitate.

But yet,

your voice may find her,

through soil and darkness penetrate.

Unafraid of death's dark shadow,

powerful truth, now spoken as command.

Resurrect!

And light will blind her,

breath shall find her lungs again.

sunset

Soon your hands will wither.

Those veins you can barely see now

will strike new wrinkles in your skin,

rise up over softened crevices.

Your neck will slouch,

descend to meet the breasts that

also have descended

down down down

to meet the bottomless belly

draped over wasting thighs.

Soon, soon, as time reveals, exposes,

your body will fold in, replace,

become unrecognisable.

This skin contorts, transforms,

is plastic

in the image of its maker.

A constant reminder

of your fragility, changeability, liminality,

the fine, filmy substance of your physical existence

in this epoch.

You should EMBRACE

this final, flaming, sunset spark,

the glory unparalleled of being allowed

to dance and shine before your maker.

And then, look forward

to dawning again,

upon a world remade,

fresh light,

new skin,

new blood.

anorgasmia

My life with church has always been

a fruitless, frustrating, wearying carousel

of weekly sex with no orgasm.

It's so exhausting and unfulfilling.

I don't wanna go!!!

The technicians stand around the bed making suggestions,

the number of participants,

the verbal content,

the soundtrack,

tweaking these things will increase arousal,

and on our system,

guaranteed,

you'll be screaming with joy

on a rostered basis.

Well it never happens,

and the appointments,

and the discussions,

and the arguments

just make it worse and worse and worse.

Heightening the expectation that is already disappointed,

calling for a something that is never going to

come.

Why torture me so?

It blinds me to the other values of this bride of Christ,

the other reasons to pursue her.

If satisfying sex is on offer,

but never delivered,

just like any horny teenager,

I'll dump her and move on,

seeking nourishment for my deep

social

psychological

physical

emotional

spiritual need

somewhere else.

But we're engaged,

not married yet.

The consummation awaits,

the glorious union with you.

The truly orgasmic, exciting climax

when all creation will find it's fulfillment.

So stop dangling this dangerous fruit.

Like all long engagements,

this situation has its pitfalls,

not least the seeming stretching

of every second into an hour,

every hour into a year,

enduring the not-so-great while waiting for the best thing ever.

So when we launch into the same routine again,

next time,

turn the lights down low,

turn the music up,

but never get to the point where the heaving and sighing gets anywhere,

help me to remember that it's a lie to expect anything more.

There are other reasons to love her anyway,

and to continue to hold at arms length

those doctors who promise easy solutions,

but no real answers.  

have I not loved

I've flown there and back in one exhausting day
to weep, forlorn at a graveside.

I've waked and waited through watches of the night
willing sickness to turn.

I've prayed desperately and faithfully,
daily and yearly
that hearts will turn and be made flesh.

I've gasped in ecstatic joy,
cried in wrenching sadness,
laughed with humble mirth.

I've smiled at stories because I know someone I love will love them,
stored them up in memory to share,
to brighten or stimulate an Other's day.

Gathered tidbits to share,
made favourite dishes,
slaved in the preparation of special gifts.

I've waited patiently,
defended jealously,
watched enviously,
thirsted endlessly,

have I not loved?!!

Just because I haven't rolled roughly on rumpled sheets,
or promised fealty in public celebration.

Just because you see no biological evidence
and cannot see into the deeps of my heart.

Though I have not felt the pleasure of it,
I know what delight there must be,
in walking arm in arm,
in warm sun,
on fair path.

Though I have not tasted the pleasure of a kiss,
my minds mouth can conjure it,
and sup the bitterness of its ending.

I have loved.
I do love.
I will love.

You may never see it,
celebrate it,
give me gifts.

You may never organise a party
simply to congratulate me on it's length.

You may never note or mark it at all,

but have I not loved?

bloody love

Multitasking like a manic monkey in the attempt to prove I'm not a total failure.

Procrastinating wildly in the best style of self-sabotage.

Guilt guilt guilty that my failures drag others down with me.

Help me off this treadmill of woe,
my Sisyphian attempt to win salvation (freedom from painful shame) by works (hopeful/hopeless stabs at success).

Lift up my eyes,
from my navel
to your skies.
Help me truly perceive and believe your measureless graciousness,
staunch affection,
bloody love.

cutting a covenant

Marriage - sealed with a kiss,
not a cut,
'though intermingling blood
will stain pure sheets,
proving true cost of loyalty:
when broken, hearts will bleed.

Flood - sealed with a bow,
a sign
that rain will not overshoot it's place
as a weapon against sin, the world and the devil,
to overwhelm by drowning.
Clear-cut colour, witness to grace.

Communion - sealed with a cup,
some bread,
a prayer.
Feeble evocation of slaughter:
omitting stink, bile and skin,
but perfect prompt for a meal,
a feast,
of fellowship, grace, and daily need
provided by the promise maker,
cut, out, excluded,
faithful still,
heavenly baker, vigneron and king. 

as a fool returns to her folly

my heart hurts

I want to keep striving, keep trying,
to swallow that vomit,
reinvestigate whatever taste I may have left behind,
chew over the chunks,
so maybe I'll realise
why I spat it out in the first place.

my heart hurts

You could grind me in a mortar,
make me dust with a pestle,
then still all my pieces would strain
to re-form,
re-gather
in order to repeat
the foolishness I've repented of.

It's not a sin,
it's just stupid,
the tempting kind of stupid
that spreads salve on the hole in my hurting heart.

from praises of panadol

My hollowed body and heavy head have kept me sofa bound,
house tied,
as I rally slowly from brief illness.

I had almost forgotten to pray,
reach out,
seek mercy,
glorify,
because I have paracetemol,
so the worst passed quickly, almost painlessly.
Fretful fever, ravaged throat and thumping head soothed swiftly,
suffering curtailed.
So easy to forget you in scarcity of need,
elevating gift to the glory of the giver,
praising PanadolTM instead of You.

But when I fell, and shivered, and shook on the couch,
room spinning, knees knocking,
shortened breath and screaming mind,
I remembered that without your grace, I'd be dead,
and for a moment or three, I was afraid.

Centuries of small steps:
hand washing,
miracle drugs,
room ventilation,
corset freedom,
plentiful red meat,
vitamins,
clean water,

countless quotidian blessings
conferred lavishly by You
are really all that separates me from
crumbled, forgotten headstones telling tales of
deathly flu,
terrifying plagues,
early deaths
and the truth of human frailty.

You've known all along it takes the rush of the storm
to quicken our pulse
and draw us to you,
calling you from your cushion of rest
to calm and to guide.

So in my brief gasp,
freed undeservedly by you from drawn out fearing,
I echo with David the blessing You deserve.

"Praise the Lord, my soul;

all my inmost being, praise his holy name.

Praise the Lord, my soul,

and forget not all his benefits—

who forgives all your sins

and heals all your diseases,

who redeems your life from the pit

and crowns you with love and compassion,

who satisfies your desires with good things

so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s."

birthday birthday

In 8 days, I turn 27. I have no fixed address, no "career", no children, lots of debt and a somewhat heavy sense that I should have it more 'together' by now.

But my life would not have even been possible in other centuries, other cultures, so despite the mild discomforts, I rejoice in the sacrifices of others that have led me here. For all it's strange disconnectedness, skating aimlessness and burden of potentiality, it is a blessed, blessed life, graciously kissed by love. It's a gift, fashioned for me and given to me by the hands of others.

I am sheltered, fed, warmed and embraced by immortal beings who've opened their lives to me, so I also have a comforting sense that the Lord goes before me, walks beside me, and pushes from behind me. He will never forsake or abandon me. He knows my future, my present and my past, and is weaving it all together in the tapestry of His glory.

But this morning, all my brain would say is, "yeah, you're homeless, careerless, family less; just as it should be. 

You're just a fat fuck who looks like Chastity Bono, wastes time like a stoner and deserves nothing better."

Thank you for the love Jesus. Thank you for caring when you totally don't have to.

Thank you for the love Father. Thank you for guiding and watching over me, even when I sleep.

Thank you for the love Holy Spirit. Thank you for shaping and transforming me, from stunted garden weed toward fruitful, handsome wheat.

"Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them was written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written."

mother's day

Every mothers mothers mother's made mistakes.
Frowns, beatings, disappointments, frozen heartaches.
Emotional shutdowns, fire words,
warring jealousies, cold grudges.

Wounds nursed not just for lifetimes,
but generations,
blood passed, mother to daughter,
bruises repeated, one to another.

77 times, and 77 times more.
Forgive, forgive, forgive,
clasp hand to breast.
Swallow the poison again and again,
vomit it up,
get rid of the gall.
Spew out the bile on Jesus'
bare, anointed feet.
Wash off with tears,
and then,
repeat. 

these three

These three will remain,
Faith, Hope and Love,
and the most terrifying of these is love.

Faith is not scary,
but logical in the extreme.
It is only by faith that breath can be taken in.

Hope does not induce fear,
it is strong and bold,
even in small measure it is robust, though it feels fleeting,
it can only lead to life.

But Love, ah Love.
Love alone can terrify.
Without Faith and Hope by it's side,
love strangles life in the night.
To love as strong as death
without hope of consummation
is to kill your soul with unceasing sorrow.
To love in jealousy as unyielding as the grave,
but to have not faith
is to chew away at the fibres of your own being.

So love in faith, with hope,
or do not love at all.

Unless...
Love bold!
Risk pain!
Take on the terrifying adventure.
Let love life disappoint, destroy, damage,
but snatch at joy from the jaws of death,
seek out faithful, hoping love,
and thereby find your all.

unity not uniformity

What business have alike to love?

Same mind, same soul,

no wrinkle of dislike at all

to ruffle quiet waters of equality.

Alike in liking find smooth path of love,

same preference, same kind.

One flesh, one mind, one all.

No barriers to blind, to wrench, to maul.

Uniform. They lightly tread quotidian jaunt,

the worst dismay a pause –

before concord resumes, rewards

their complimentary wills with easy certainty.

Unlike unliking found, 'in love'.

Their disparate tongues at ready to disgorge

10 things on each, strong tributes to discord.

100 items of conflicting bias,

1, 000 moments “sent to try us”.

Unlike resemble not a restful lake,

more, troubled sea, conflicting tides,

vast breakers, magnetised

by different moons, near different suns,

alien planets inhabited by different souls,

with different minds, of different kinds.

Competing currents, dangerous reefs,

all threaten to unship this passionate crew,

navigating life's passage to the end

of the world where everything unlike,

alike, will be made new.

Not newly uniform, but united, all love requited.

The fight is tougher for unlike to face,

the trophies greater, a richer taste of grace.

From strife, risk, chance, pain,

comes not like, but love;

the just reward, the sweetest gain.  

spiritual surgery

Split atom,
sliced open.
Gaping wound,
crying for restoration.

Open flesh calls out for second flesh,
a meeting of minds,
to close out all air from the gap.

Oxygen screams past,
burning,
stinging,
calling forth wet tears
to cover nakedness
in sympathetic sorrow.

You attach no alien limb,
but re-attach own self,
suturing skin to skin,
that bodies may meet bodies,
whole and yet co-mingled,
separately complete,
federally joyous.

Worst Confession Ever...

So here it is.
The type of night on which I wish I had a boyfriend on the end of the phone line,
Who I could text and say,
"Are you still up?"

I don't know why it can't just be you,
or some other friendly friend on the line...
I'm not even sure particularly of what to talk about.

So far, I've tried distracting myself with prayer,
Church history,
Elizabeth Gaskell
and Words With Friends.

None of that's really working, but it'd give us something to talk about...!

Of course,
Cosmo wisdom says this is the worst kind of public confession to make,
because it oozes desperation.

When really, it's just a hot night,
and my Prozac,
or my toothache,
or my heartache,
or whatever,
is keeping me awake.

when lonely

Too weird for anyone to marry,
too isolated for anyone to try,
too pep-talked by family and friends not to realise
there must be a strong dissociation in the way people view me.

Too tired today, tonight, this morning,
to fight the cognitive-behavioural battle by myself.
Not that I ever should.

I turn to your word for solace and correction,
finding there a lesson in Divine Maths.

1 + 0 = many.
1 + Yahweh = can conquer a horde.
1 + The Family = is a bond eternal.
1 + 1 merely mimics 1 = 3 = 1.

In the 'New Maths', 1 + Many = is a better representation
of that Trinitarian algebra,
that mysterious formula,
that magical sum,
than a little 1 + 1.

"Your Creator will be your husband,
the Commander of Heavenly Armies is His name."

cognitive dissonance leads to truth

Isaiah 53  contra  1 Corinthians 13

Love is painful,
love is blind.
It births envy
and boasts of its object,
it is rapacious as the grave.

Love is easily angered,
ready to stab and slash at all threats.
Love dismembers, love's despised.
Love is obsessive,
it always protects,
hopelessly trusts,
ceaselessly hopes.

Love never fails,
it's stronger than death.

Love is ugly.
Love is exposed.
Love is embarassing.

Love is vulnerable.
Love is doomed.
Love overcomes all,
consumes all,
takes all.

Love is sharp.

six storm clouds

Six clouds banked up in the sky today, 
And sent down a dreary shower. 

The suddenness of the storm caused several leaks, 
Eventually blocked with tissues and shuddering, deep breaths. 

Why oxygen should be the cure for all evils is beyond me, but it seems you made it so. 


It also helped to moan my sorrows into a distant but friendly ear, 
Rather like you but... Well, the delightful tangibility of a two-way conversation is always comforting, and as we all know, you do answer back, but in a very abnormal way! 
That must be part of why you gave us the power of speech, 
So we can speak six words of comfort to each other, 
And banish six storm clouds. 

the baby

I understood it all the moment I saw her,
looking like the Evil Emperor from Star Wars,
warily blinking at the world.

The sudden punch to the belly,
a power hit of joy, awe
and fierce fighting fire.

My first thought, "she's beautiful"
very closely followed by my second,
"if anyone hurts her, I'll kill them!"

Woah!

She's not even my child,
she's just my niece,
but she was small, squishy and defenceless.

And something more...

She was a child, a baby.
Not just a symbol,
but the very essence of all that is important
and precious
and vulnerable in this world.

How could you let Him come like that?

The joy of seeing Him born, crushingly overshadowed
by the shit and blood and stench of His death.

I feel sick
and then
wonder-full.

babel's verbal bricolage

Have yourself a melancholy Christmas,
let your heart be stone.
From now on your troubles will be
on your mind!
Yes have yourself a melancholy Christmas now.


Hark! The drunken uncle sings,
blast Nauru and kill the chinks.
Heat on earth, and Cooper's mild,
Aunt Dot won't be reconciled.

Joyful all ye 'lations rise,
join the triumph, eat the pies.
With th' angelic host proclaim,
Dudley's dead, it is a shame.

Hark! The drunken uncle sings,
glory to roast turkey wings.


O little town of Bethlehem,
how still we see thee lie.
Above thy automated sleep,
fake snow falls fill the sky.

Mechanical street choirs
all make a tinny sound,
the English look is rather grand,
but odd considering Palestine...


Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree,
thou totem to depression.
Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree,
hear now my sad confession.
I always want to gather round,
with family to hear the sound
of something more than Christmas trees,
cheap presents and fake niceties.


Dear Jesus, please please please help me to hear you above the din!

Help me when I'm sad about other things that you gave us all the most incredible gift.

And help me when I'm happy about that awesome vegetable curler I hope I'm getting, or my new icecream maker, or what I believe will be a very good book, help me then not to forget you either. Help me remember that vegetable curlers will pass away, but your words will never pass away. Help me to remember that as the sun rises and the sun set, your unfailing love surrounds me.

Help me to remember after I stop feeling sad about my first Spinster-Alone-With-Parents Christmas, you've got some really exciting, challenging blessings in store for me.

Help me to remember after I stop feeling tired from smiling as constantly as possible, being polite and patient all day, and not killing anybody that you will have a reward for me later.

Thankyou is such a wooden word to me at the moment, so I want to thankyou, but I don't want to say that...

I want to say that you give me a reason to get out of bed every day.

Whatever mood I'm in, whatever thoughts cross my mind, you walk along with me, talk it through, and pour your heavenly wisdom into my very empty bowl...

In those moments after I've stopped crying, or have just seen someone treated with injustice, or am suddenly struck by the universe sucking futility of plastic plants in the Macca's drive through, you are there.

In those moments when I'm laughing loudly at something very stupid, or am smiling smugly over a cake, or am suddenly struck by the astounding beauty of the clouds next to the highway, you are there.

Thankyou doesn't cover it...

Gracias?

Amen :-)

distance

Distance has ever been our fickle frenemy.
She beckons us seductively
with promise of exotic islands,
rolling deserts, ancient architecture and sparkling seas.
An escape, a fresh perspective,
a new horizon.

But then she destroys,
with estrangement,
poor communication,
isolation and despair.

We discover to our surprise
and sometimes shame,
that distance lurks
across the whole four feet
of a double bed.

She loiters awkwardly between
strangers at a church supper,
and hovers between friend/not-friends/maybe-more-than/friends?

Distance arrives in unexpected places,
and stretches our comfort to its limit.

But our distance from you...
Ah...
She's another enemy altogether!

Why are you so far from saving me?
Why do you not come near to rescue me?

Why must we be separated
by the echoing corners of empty rooves?
By the resounding silence in closed cathedrals?
Wandering alone in the cool of the morning...

Come close.
Cover distance,
extinguish her,
conquer her.
Draw us to yourself.

Amen.

what a cliché

I know it's stupid.

That everyone's thought this before,

talked this before,

written this before.

You must get at least a little sick of it!

But I feel it at the moment...

It's the reason I shouldn't listen to Daydreamer by Adele

(beautiful singer, evil, evil song. Who could possibly inhabit that unreal expectation?!).

It's the reason I shouldn't watch Pride and Prejudice when I feel like this

(beautiful story, no delightful implications for Mary!).

It's the reason I shouldn't check facebook every thirty seconds

(beautiful community, no matter what people say, but every viewing only increases disappointment! The deserved frustrations of the village gossip when everyone's closed their doors for the night...).

So I know it's stupid...

But it's love!

I know it's boring by repetition,

but it's love!

It's discontented love.

It's the desire for love.

It's the feelings of love.

It's the reason I'm dissatisfied in you sometimes,

and the reason I don't want to be.

The Proclaimers sing that when you're in love, you're out of your mind.

That romantic love rots the brain.

They are so right!

Even when there's no one specific.

Even if the other person has no idea at all.

Or does and is embarrassed for you.

Or suspects but doesn't want you.

Even then, the brain rot can set in.

I'm sick of feeling like this,

because I don't want to resent you!

Or the life you give me.

But I can't help wishing,

and hoping,

and praying,

that that person will turn and know.

That that person will realise, or confess, or acknowledge...

Or any person! Anyone...

But I know that my struggling in itself pleases you.

That by inviting you in, and asking, and hoping,

I'm trusting.

So please help me to keep trusting you God.

And crying,

and not crying,

and not giving a rats,

and caring desperately about it,

because I want you to be involved in all of that.

And I want you to answer!

Thankyou,

Love Jo.