dimanche 16 novembre 2008

dreams of a disabled woman

for Ron

doorknobs make

good lovers
fish smells
linger in the kitchen
empires crumble
beneath my feet

there are countless
stars in the sky
there are dreams
that come and
go in a flash
and I can't keep them

they say timing is
everything: miss a step
and fall flat on your face
then try to remember
how god's grace felt
before the crash

someone mows a lawn
because the sun is out
i mute the television
so i can write a poem
about nothing at all
and dare to be a god

a broom sits waiting
for the filthy floor
the cat at my shoulder
is bored to death
we both want to be fed
by the god upstairs

but he is sleeping
who cares? it's still morning
a face on the television
looks wise as he speaks
do i dare to hope
that i might believe?

everything wise
loves silence:
i close my burning eyes
and meditate on breath
then light a cigarette
to appease my pain

death isn't silent
it comes rumbling
into town with
a broken muffler and
no brakes
radiator exploding

i've been told that
women have no
adam's apple at all
could it be that
the tree of knowledge got
stuck in adam's throat?

who knows.
who cares.
there are places to go
people to see
things to believe
but not for me

my sickbed is a place
that god visits
with a wink and a nod
as if everything and
nothing are understood
maya, karma and

blood on the wire:
the cat sits on my arms
as i type, she seems
to like the dance
of my words on the keys
an unsteady rhythm

then leaps to her feet
angry and hungry
she sits with her back
turned against me
tells me to get up
and do something!

i don't protest
i light a cigarette
and feast on smoke
I'm no fool, sweetheart
I know what you want:
the god upstairs to descend

he does so every day
picks up her dish
gently teasing her
opens the can of cheap tuna
warms it up and ever so
sweetly calls her to sup

it's a big lawn
across the street
the tv may be dumb but
there is not enough
silence for an
accurate poem

there will be no
punchline today
the earth is turning
but i can't feel it
someone wise is speaking
but there's a gag in his mouth

i feel the smooth knob
rub against my vulva
i remember i'm celibate
and wake up stunned
there are sounds in the kitchen
god has arrived, ungloved

why was i born?
how does the earth turn?
where oh where
has my libido gone?
the lawnmower roars
and no answers come

i sit cross-legged
on the couch
i don't get up
to shut the door
i wait in this no-silence,
putting words to nothing

like dreams
that come and go like
an old woman's libido
but the face of god
is always welcomed
at the end of the day

he is the action i lack
he is language
he makes a happy cat
and fills our bellies
and signals an answer
to my continued existence

it's a very large lawn
across the street
i unmute the voices
and call forth wisdom
like tumbling out of bed
with a bang and a whimper

and i wait
sitting cross-legged like
an indian mystic
the world screams
around me nonstop
but i like silence best

i like perfecting poems
in the dark
i like dreaming of love
i light a cigarette
and inhibit the sickness
that swells in my stomach

while i wait, a bored cat
at my shoulder again
waiting for god to descend
as he does everyday
it's clockwork, it's grace
it's a bittersweet dream at best

in this do-nothing world
there are exceptions like poems
that occasionally flourish
and wise men on television
that fill a hole
while we wait on god

he's got my ear again:
i listen intently for
his footfall on the stair
he banishes all loneliness
he understands my prayers
my god is come

my god is love!
i'll fold back the laptop
and stroke the kitty
then feast on fish
whilst my god and i visit
and count the stars

an infinite number
flickering in the sky
everything is turning
and we follow suit,
there is nothing more
that we gods can do

doorknobs make
good lovers
fish smells
linger in the kitchen
empires crumble
beneath my feet

there are countless
stars in the sky
there are dreams
that come and
go in a flash
and I can't keep them

7 commentaires:

Stirling Davenport a dit…

This is great, moineau. I especially love these lines:
"there is not enough
silence for an
accurate poem"

Wow - but good try, oui?

Ron B. a dit…

I've only read and appreciated poetry for about a year. I lack both the interpretive and critiquing skills to realistically convey how a poem sometimes moves me. I enjoy John W.'s comments on my poetic attempts more than my poetry.

In any event, I know what I like whether I can verbalize it or not and I like this one a lot. It was like watching you from an overhead light as you kept tuning out the external and focusing on the internal.

Smoking, thinking and writing are broken only by anticipation or distraction while waiting for another's arrival.

There is very little we can keep. Bravo Laura, I love your vulnerability and honesty.

Jan a dit…

cet poem me fait triste
je me sens la realite
fatalite de tous
les peches nous laissent
l'odeur de la mort
neamoins nous continuons
en attendent Godot

Moineau En France a dit…

thank you, everyone, for your thoughtful comments. stirling, i love how i discovered your resurrected blog. thanks for your loving support. ron, i wouldn't knock your critical skills; you always grab the very heart of everything you read. jan, i appreciate your verse-critiques so much; like morality tales, i learn something new every time you write one. xoxoxox

Barbary Chaapel a dit…

I second Ron: Your vulnerability and honesty peak volumes; The language glistens.

John Walter a dit…

One of the best "song of myself" poems I've read in a very long time, Laura, especially with your use of the key repeating stanzas that reinforce a framing vision of God, of order, so you can explode it with experience, so you can also kill it with your shared boredom with a cat, so you can reify the life that is worth living. There is an extraordinary tautness in this language that focuses and refocuses on the immediate, on the props of living, and what we consider existence as essence, as being part of the world. I was riveted by the different transitions in the poem, as well as the use of repeated phrases, to get across the sense of the self in a sea of rising and attenuated meaning. Beautiful poem about a poet trying to validate the ineffable in life in its daily particulars, but also trying to overcome the catastrophic situation, the paralyzing circumstances.....

Jan Hersh a dit…

I decided to translate...
this poem makes me sad
I sense the reality and fatality
of all
the sins/fish leave us the smell of death
nevertheless we continue
waiting for Godot