figureofdismay: (Default)
tumblr is less and less a manageable place to engage with fandom. i'm going to see if I can make use of this journal instead. I'm not really sure yet what all that entails, but this is a promise to myself to make a real effort with dreamwidth.
figureofdismay: (Default)
We would be beholden to love, as you say,
and stand out in that field, bare and unarmed
and helpless before it,
having given over all defense, and laid aside
every shielding denial
and you may find it demeaning, alarming
too great a risk answered only by such an intangible reward.
I think you have only known hearth-kin love and
that is a fat, docile, drowsy, dun-colored thing,
of comfort and common pleasantries,
of small pleasures given at little cost,
and that is nice enough.

But oh,
only we shall be fine fair things, that glisten in the sun
we shall be as gentle woodland creatures that slip
through passages of trees, unclothed, unwary, mute,
half glimpsed by stamping travellers in sturdy boots who pause
in the cool wood but do not linger.
We shall be as wild things, not pinned to this world
and unheeding of its strictures
and, with teeth and claws made ready, proceeding outward,
passed through the outmost gate, broke free.
We shall not believe we are too wise to be so moved,
for we will be as the lovers that the gods did bless
with a caress of their golden hands atop our heads
and under their protection, stand unflinching,
We shall be unscrimping as children,
who live with lavish wonder,
who do not expect harm and are unharming,
and we shall not shy back from the sight
of our misshapen, mouldering,
briny hearts, long left hidden and unattended
but cradle them between us with greatest care.
We shall be
of the earth and from our great vantage, above it,
and settling in, descending down to our loamy rest,
we shall not even then be parted,
and be never bound and never made to shoulder the yoke
of dutiful forbearance, never as those penitents,
harnessed to one another, who fear to speak and be heard
and instead are mummified by the winding sheet of secrets kept,
and kept, until they spoil.
We shall be as every encompassing notion,
and every disparate, fading note and the silent breathing between--

We shall be all of these,
if only we may at first begin.
figureofdismay: (Default)
We, who go outside to wander,
where each step is weathered
and each breath is weighed,
we that must experience each mile,
we have no wings,
waxwork mannequins -- animate.
The rose in the jar dies and dries
and cannot, with fire, be renewed.

Pollinate our thoughts,
ripen our brains in the sun,
resolving soon to cut our strings and wires.

There is laid out light like silk,
there is sea cliff and sea tide,
sea time like a watchful clock,
its springs unwinding.
Sea house perched at the edge of land
wherein your memories reside,
incognizant and and silent.
Turn a little key in the little bird's back,
see it flutter jeweled wings
and warble a clockwork song.
Play a record on the phonograph and dance,
listen to your feet shuffle (empty, hollow)
on the floorboards while you wait
for the rushing wave at your door.

We are small things, small things
spinning on the breeze,
dandelion down
and down, and on
with a passing sigh,
counting thoughts and birds
and blades of grass.
Found future in the bottom of a murky cup,
chance hung on a spinning coin,
spilled on the dirt with a bag of grain
figureofdismay: (Default)
We shall just go on being this, we will be uncertain forever
in our tender and unwilling child-hearts,
hopeful and wandering,
doing the shopping and looking out the front-room window
at the grey-green city evening,
waiting for when to dress for dinner,
and never knowing what to say
or how to pick up the phone --
or even to remember that we're all
made up of ways to fill our days
and while them away,
and the shelved, hard wearing remnants of our sneakers-and-backpack childhoods,
the small voices who still remember trusting
that some greater, sleeping self soon would wake,
larger, capable, impossibly knowing.

Lately, where you are concerned
it's as though, under my ribs,
someone has scooped out
all my ticking, beating inner workings
and replaced them with longing,
whole and perfect,
as empty and round and boundless as any open space.
I breathe through it, and wait
and store things there,
the folded things of our better days.
I look at them from time to time.

I would sit at your feet with joy,
I would walk with you, arm in arm and
lean against your shoulder, thus,
and know the feel of those mundane and nourishing sensations,
coat sleeves, warm-firm flesh, hard elbow, solid shoulder bone.
If you might hold me, I would tell you,
speak into your coat collar and
tell you anything, all things,
would let you keep them all, my little wooden spin-top thoughts,
only painted trinkets, they'd be yours.
you might keep me,
and not fault me for the pressed leaf
of girlhood that I carry--
if I could speak to you this way,
if you could see past the measured temperament of your mid-less heart,
see me as a bold and quaking thing,
we could be happy.
We might.
figureofdismay: (Default)
Oh you creatures of endless hope
who wear but do not soften
even when faced with days limned by fire,
cracking open, fearful, like fallen jars,
the spoiled promise of preserves vouchsafed
by fruitful seasons that once walked broad and mild
now made over in dust and withered cane,
even when stretched taught and made to stand ready,
guard the gate
or sit with thimbles, in the night,
pricking needles, pricking thumbs.
Vast, dim bricks of wayward thought,
you will find no great shelter there,
only things that grow there, dark and sweet
which may be crushed and mixed,
I know their portions well.
And this remedy I therefore make,
a kind of soft reprieve,
might let you love me more (enough),
might let me find my sleep.
We bow our heads towards the soft breath
that rises calm
from the woods of endless dream,
and finding comfort there, begin
as tending voices greet the dawn.
figureofdismay: (Default)
untitled poem 9b--

I know what it is to be judged

and found wanting.

You cannot love me.

I am the longing which stands

and cannot be relieved by prayer,

I am as the mollusk which is left

by fumbling storm-waters

above the high tide line.


Nov. 25th, 2011 11:15 pm
figureofdismay: (eternal sunshine alive)

Still is the hopeful dawn, when the light strikes across the frost

Waiting as I —

and I am only this, a kind of lingering pause,

a figure of dismay —

Find the crest of the hill which rises vast.

Cold makes the air a shape I move through,

the bright sky is stretched

broad and luminous as an unfurling thought.

The breath in my scarf is fogged and damp,

I mean only to stand a while,

til I go on, and down,

down all through the bracken and blackberry cane.



figureofdismay: (Default)

July 2017



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