Poesie

Il est tragique, mais pas serieux.
AU.

Morte est la mere de la belle, Madame,
Et vous pouvez dormir dans les lits que vous fabriquez.

Quand j’etais une petite fille,
Je courais souvent dans la neige.
Et je pensais, souvent, le fin du monde
Viendrait ou je restais.

Le lessive et dormir
Le lessive et dormir
(and you leave your quotations uncited)
Le lessive et dormir
Le lessive et dormir
(and you’re starving the muse you invited)

Quand j’etais une femme nouvelle,
Je voyais a un portrait que je haissais.
Mais a peu du lait
Que je peux acheter,
Puis la chambre de les ombres je closais.

Ennui

When Heather was a little girl, her mother took her to nurse a witch doctress in a nearby village. Heather would not have known who this woman was except for the whispers of the working girls in her house; for Heather’s mother said nothing as she walked determinedly through the arid street, Heather’s hand clasped firmly between her cool fingers against the dusty African air.

Heather’s curiosity toward this strange woman grew, for Heather learned from the working girls that this woman was not only a witch doctress but had an infamous reputation as a great seductress who had been the lover of many great men. Heather wondered why her mother would choose to help such a woman, but the intricasies of her parents long ago ceased to be a source of consistent perplexity to Heather. She did not question but obeyed.

Inside the hut Heather worked quietly beside her mother, but was startled in the few moments when the doctress suddenly slipped to consciousness. During these moments the woman stared piercingly at Heather, and seemed not to perceive any other person in the room. Heather trembled, for in her childhood she still sensed a strong and frightening connection between herself and the older woman; something great and terrible in this look that she could not understand.

The witch doctress died that night, and when Heather tottered home beside her mother the sky was very grey.

Heather forgot the witch doctress until ten years later, in her first semester studying at Emmanuel University. At that time the Emmanuel church received a visitor, a woman famous in its circles for her Biblical studies but greatly controversial due to her pastoring her own church.

Heather watched the woman wonderingly, but felt a strange sensation when the woman’s gaze turned to her and seemed to pierce into her soul. The frightening sensation sparked some memory of repetition that Heather could not quite explain.

It was not until Heather lay in bed that evening that she connected the woman pastor’s look and it’s strange sensation to the look of the woman in Africa. Just as she was drifting to slumber the connection came to her, and she knew in her last minutes of consciousness that the looks were the same.

w Chopin.

w Chopin

He smiled on you in his youth

So thin, pale, effeminate.

Blending in with your blanched and bleaching city.

But you remember him so well,

Dropping his name

When you drink at guest parties

Smiling or smirking

Your back straightens a bit.

You put his statue in your square,

Broader and straighter, I think, than he really was.

But that was how you saw him.

His songs were so quiet

You mention them so loud.

He left when you were free, and when you fell in bondage

He did not return to you.

Pari, Pari. There he drank wine

There he made love,

There he tasted the sordid, sweet delights you could not give.

(Pari is full of color,

And you are full of shade.)

You were Maria Wodzinska

Pari his George Sand.

Il ne jamais fait l’amour a vous.

Do you think his mind there was on you, Warsawa?

The prodigal son

Who never returned.

Warsawa, Warsawa,

Why do you cling to him

Who left you so young?

And you have nothing to claim

But his minuets.

Hitler’s descendents

He seemed an ordinary man, I think,

So silent and still across the street.

German, I was sure, and his name I was sure

Was changed from Holges or Heines

To the less offensive “Heller.”

I was rather in love with him, though he never saw,

Or seemed to, and was so comparatively old.

He and his brothers (there were no girls)

Had never married.

It seemed a shame, I thought,

To let that line die out.

Because he never saw me, he would never know

That we too had changed our names.

“Pessler” became “Parker”

And was written above our door

Next to our American Flag.

He had no name above his door,

But an American Flag was there,

Almost blushing, I used to think.

(How silly that is.)

How glad we are,

I am quite sure,

To live right here

(The home of the free.)

I only wish that when he came

Outside, he would once look at me.

(He never seems to look at me.)

The Comfort Women

“The whole village came out because my mother was crying so hard . . . she cut up the cotton and linen fabrics she had been saving for my wedding.

And she made me new clothes.”

by Oak-ryun Park (1919)

1. Incantation One: The smiling girls

We are the smiling girls

We are the kind girls

Smirking we spin

With dizzy delight

Softly we fall

And stare at the light

(Cover our eyes

For it is too bright)

Surrounded by flowers

So purple and grey

(Blooming for hours)

We hide them away

Inside our pockets

With brimming delight

As softly we giggle

Afloat like a kite

For all is set right

We are the smiling girls.

We are the kind girls.

(Blessed mothers, hear our prayers

Hide us from the evil stares

Help us grow with shrinking cares

Blessed mothers, hear our prayers.)

 2. Incantation 2: The taken girls

like Philamel, so rudely forced.

“Our flowers have fallen

And we have no light.”

We are the pulled girls

We are the torn girls

Ripped from the fields

We clung to the earth

Begging for mercy

A shallow rebirth

But there was none; our fingers stained with grass.

Our tongues were cut because we cried

Our bodies burned by blood and lice

There is no light but we cover our eyes

We have no hands to cover our eyes

We have no eyes to shield from the darkness

Yet

We

Try to cover our eyes

We kicked, they cut our feet

We bit, they broke our teeth

Blinded and bloody we lay at their feet

We are the pulled girls, we are the torn girls.

(Mothers, mothers, hear ours creams

Save us from the bloody beams

Bleeding from our broken dreams

Mothers, mothers, hear our screams)

3. Incantation 3: The shamed girls.

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang, but with a whimper.(ELiot)

(Turn us purple, turn us red

Give us sheets to hide our heads

Bless the dying, envy dead,

Turn us purple, turn us red.)

We are the shamed girls

We are the cut girls

Buried we lie

In layers of black

Briefly we breathe

A bloody attack

Open and buried

Ashashaah!

But always come back

Mothers! Mothers! Hear our cry

We are the

Can you see us where we lie?

Shamed girls

Mothers mothers

We cannot lift

Can you hear us

Our hands our eyes

Can you see us

Are gone

Mothers mothers

We cannot lift

Can you

Our eyes is there

Hear us

A place for us

Just any place

YindadaYindadada!

(Mothers, mothers, take our souls

Offered from damnation’s bowls

While we writhe among the coals

Mothers, mothers, take our souls)

 4. Incantation4: The comforted girls

Our flowers have blossomed

And they will not die.

We are the comforted girls.

We are the peaceful girls

Hidden away

From darkness and pain

Washed and renewed

And cleansed from our shame

We have a voice

We are the comforted girls

Our mothers

(Listen now)

Are here

We watch you from high

Our daughters

 (Listen now)

are near

We shift and we sigh

(we are so proud)

Nothing can hurt us)

Listen now.

recovered from pain

No one desert us

Listen

Now we have a voice.

We are the comforted girls.

We are the peaceful girls.

Daughters, daughters, each December

Think of us, you should remember.

Blog Post

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http://themamalibka.wordpress.com/

The Peter Pan Complex

I’ve often been told, as a compliment or accusation, that I was born into the entitlement generation. From this label I’ve inferred that I’m expected to expect, well, everything, while expecting to give as little as possible.

For instance I should expect to be entitled to the best opportunities, jobs, and materials while remaining as free from commitment as is physically possible. While our grandparents committed to their families straight from high school, and our parents straight from college, we can and should satisfy our desires with no marriage, no family, no ties, no 9-5 job.

I’ve watched this individualistic, self-fulfillment doctrine thrive in the attitudes of my contemporaries, and have sensed a subtle disconnection, an unacknowledged dissonance I could best describe as the Peter Pan Effect.

For instance, I sometimes see my generation, with our simple hedonism sans responsibility, stare at responsibility itself with conflicted yearning. We are certain that our libertinism is superior, but cannot account for our longing for what we’ve escaped.

Let me reference a scene from Peter Pan itself.

Peter is watching the Darling family reunion, and Mrs. Darling offers Peter a place in her family if he will give up his entitled freedom.

“‘Would you send me to school?’ He inquired craftily.

‘Yes.’

‘And then to an office?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Soon I would be a man?’

‘Very soon.’

‘ . . . Keep back, lady, no one is going to catch me and make me a man.’”

But Peter Pan himself, that icon of eternal youth, could not entirely escape the regret I see written on faces all around me. I suppose this final paragraph describing the happiness of the Darling family may summarize all:

“There could not have been a lovelier sight; but there was none to see it except a little boy who was staring in at the window. He had had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know; but he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he must be forever barred.”

The Scarlett Letter

Is there any balm in Gilead? Tell me, truly, I implore.

Quoth the Raven, nevermore.

*

“Tomorrow will be a very special day.” Heather informed Penny as she tamed her unruly white curls. The reflection of mother and daughter flickered in the mirror, for Heather preferred light by candles, and the result was an atmosphere continually muted and dimmed.  “Tomorrow is your seventh birthday.”

“It isn’t!” cried Penny, her head quivering indignantly. “It is my four hundredth!”

Heather felt a slight shiver slide down her spine, but she brushed the feeling aside as she brushed Penny’s hair. “What a silly thing to say.” She murmured, her expression fixed and calm. “You were born seven years ago. I was present at your birth, after all.”

“You were not.” Insisted Penny, and her eyes snapped with quizzical excitement. “I sprang five hundred years ago from the blackest forest mud, as a daisy or a white, white rose; and you found me and keep me here for, I don’t know why.”

Heather tilted her head and considered what she ought next to say.

“And you are not my mother.” continued Penny curtly. “Vous n’etez pas ma mere. You also sprang from that black ground, and the dark man on the platform did also. For we are all made of the same dirt on the ground, and came from the same secluded spot, and we all have the same soul.” Penny turned her head round so she could find her mother’s eyes. “But your rose is not white. It is red.”

Heather sternly turned Penny’s head to face the mirror and continued fixing her hair.

“What a silly thing to say.” She murmered lightly, with no strain except in her eyes. “Are you Anaximander, to claim to spring spontaneously from the mud? When you speak such silliness, I doubt that you could be my daughter.”

“Vous n’etez pas ma mere.” Penny insisted.

“Cannot you say “Tu n’es pas ma mere?” Heather questioned, giving her daughter a teasing tap. “At any rate, whether you are seven years old or four hundred, tomorrow I would like to play a game.

“We are always playing games.” Penny reminded her tiredly.

“Hush. This is what you must promise: you must be very quiet, well behaved and obedient; essentially entirely different from your normal self. No matter what happens, you must obey mother. The more obedient you are, the more points you receive, and if you get the most points, you will win. But if you are bad and mean and disobedient, you will get no points and you will lose the game miserably. Do you understand?”

Heather knew her daughter’s competitive spirit. Penny determined to win more points than her mother, and Heather knew that she would be well-behaved.

The Snow Queen

Is, there, is there balm in Gilead?

Tell me, truly, I implore.

Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.

Poe.

5. TheSnowQueen

Tis a calm and lovely night

For the snowflakes falling light

Glitter the most perfect sight

You can know.

And the wind is slipping past

And the stars are fading fast

Oh, your dream has come at last

The first snow.

Can you feel the snow queen?

When the moon’s unearthly beams

Strike the snowflakes like a dream

She is there.

You can feel her pass by

And you shiver as her sigh

Quivers as a distant cry

In the air.

The night takes a darker tone

As she wanders all alone

And a melancholy moan

Is her song

 And that strange, seductive tune

Mixing with the snow and moon

Lures you to your death and doom

 Before long.

Come with me

You will see

Things you never knew to be

Come away

And we’ll stay

Far from glaring light of day.

Trailing blood on virgin snow

With a diabolic glow
Her insanity does show

In her eyes.

For they glitter when she’s pleased,

And they snap when she’s uneased

And can drag you to your knees

There to die.

Feel the creeping sense of dread

Tis continually fed

Pounding, pounding in your head

You are found.

Oh the burning, churning fright

How the snow flakes seem to bite

Eerie echoes fill the night

All around.

You must fear time is dear she is near almost here

You must run find the sun there is none you are done

You must run find the sun there is none you are done.

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The room

In the middle of the room

Is a glimmer in the gloom

Just the beating of the moon

On the roof.

As it tries to slip inside

Open willing, open wide

On the shingles it resides

Still aloof.

Light a candle in the dark

Make it, mix it, mark it, spark!

As your lashes shift and smart

From the light.

If your heartbeat starts to race

Turn and tilt it from your face

(Or below a crystal vase)

Out of sight.

So the beating of the black

Is compiling in a stack

And you cannot take it back

Anymore.

Maybe now you can forget

The elusive lucid net

Of pellucid, prude regrets

That were poured.