it has been a poet’s day
with a witty sun and a sky as dry as the english
all topped with a letter to peter pumpkin’s wife
about how much i hate eating her pies
how they move in my mouth like bad sex
and afterward scrapes in that awkward pause of a door
the only explanation as to why i must forgive
but mrs eater
(whose middle name must be lillian
because it sounds both beautiful and stupid)
i have lived off your tart chunks and selfish spices
in an angry summer that finished hating me more than you
and here i have found the secret to your cups and spoons
(yes oh yes
how they made me sad too)
copying your measured recipe
and working out the doughy glue
you once said bonded your fingers to the bowl
those last lumps that held you through and through
but hey
that’s what we do
little lillian
we stay alive for each other
true
but it hurts don’t you see?
the oven is too small
and the flour laughs at me
she turns and bumps against the kitchen walls
her hips too fat for the heat and dinners half-complete
sit sit
have a slice
the best is the first cut
it’s the cleanest and the crust most fragile
like march nights and angel bones
let me show you how very brave i am
for it takes much courage to mar these little perfections
and who taught you that sweet lillian?
why just a woolf that knocked on the door
the dark was too much
and she could not woo out the moon as before
so her pockets are filled with rocks and void
oh it’s so exciting
now she writes in my attic while i bake my pies
darling could you just die?
her smile hums honey
preparing for parties she wants to attend
as i savor another fresh bite
she is happier than i have ever seen her
but what else can be expected
for this woman who is the best judge of her own interests
her story captured like the sea under the sun’s chin
embracing those white legs
engulfed against blue breasts
Author notes
I have wrestled this past summer with the innate selfishness of suicide and how they affect those that are left behind. It has been hard to forgive such actions, yet I look back at V. Woolf's life and how perhaps forgiveness is possible (even necessary) because in the end, no one knows you better than yourself. So I cannot say it is selfish when it might be even more selfish to demand someone NOT go when they are more than ready to for whatever reasons.
But no matter what or where you are, I just hope you're happy, my sweet Lillian...
A contest entry
- Poetry That Matters by Cupcrazy.
3500 points, ended February 6, 24 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 24 of 24
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This is completely stunning. You have approached such a delicate subject in such a familiar, and yet unique way. You make us almost comfortable reading about it, and yet not so. It was an interesting dynamic. I suppose it was the "backdoor" approach that made that, I'm not sure.
I wonder at your conclusion, about being the best judge of one's own interests, in such a state of mind when someone cannot see their superceding value to themselves and others. And yet I can not ignore the pain and seeming relief of such a weighty decision. Having never experienced this first hand, I have not yet wrestled with the question...but it most definitely IS one that MATTERS. Loved your allusions to Woolf, not overstated, and yet weighing in heavily toward the end.
I really appreciated your heartfelt ponderings set here before us, to begin to consider ourselves. Really well done.
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Oh darling, how could I have missed this!
You don't know how much it warms my heart to see a new write from you. Not to mention, one of this nature. It's so astonishing. You are a master of words, imagry, metaphor- and I am in awe every time. I could read this over and over. I find a way to relate to each and every one of your pieces. They never get old, and it really gets me how you find a way inside of the reader's heads and hearts and force them to feel and see only your beautiful words. Lovely
Jeanette*~
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This is just a beautiful write, deep, reflective and heart wrenching. I have often thought of Virginia and the weight of those stones as I stare at the ocean. I used to think that suicide was weakness as well, but I now think it takes incredible strength. When times have been tough I have walked that thin line as I imagine many have as well, but something, maybe weakness, self- preservation or maybe just plain cowardice has prevented me from crossing it. Ultimately I think it comes down to hopelessness, when the spirit can not be lifted and the days become meaningless, then suicide becomes the release that is so painfully needed.
As I wrote once in one of my poems, "Emptiness has a way of filling up and spilling over, consuming." I think it is the emptiness that engulfs you and fills you up until that is all there is.
This piece is meaningful, emotional and extremely poetic. Great use of imagery and metaphor! It read extremely well except my brain stumbled over one section:
"how they move in my mouth like bad sex
and afterwards scrapes in that awkward pause of a door"
I felt that the plural of afterwards and scrapes together was not grammatically correct, I think that either the afterwards or scrapes should be singular. Other than that I loved the work! Hugs, Bunny
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great great great fuckin stuff, cant say more can i?
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"copying your measured recipe
and working out the doughy glue
you once said bonded your fingers to the bowl
those last lumps that held you through and through
but hey
that’s what we do
little lillian
we stay alive for each other
true
but it hurts don’t you see?
the oven is too small
and the flour laughs at me"
I love those lines. There is the image in my head about bonding fingers to the bowl & my mother cooking. The flour reminds me of growing up & being laughed at for being different (it happens to everyone, but to me it was of a mocking, sneer, harsh quality).
I do have suggestions to the poem. But I am not sure it is appropriate given this poem seems like its from the gut, dealing with a difficult and personal time in your life. I agree with your author comment on suicide. It is truely a tough thing to understand & I can't say I haven't thought about it at one point in my life. For now, on this earth, I am here to stay.
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p.s. i'd totally applaud if i had points lol
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oh my god. to say this is inspiring, might be an understatement..
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I just read this AGAIN. I pity anyone who has not read your work, I really do.
You wonderful, talented woman
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You inspire me every single day. Well, okay, not EVERY day, but everytime I read your work You are utterly inspiring and if I could write like you I would die a happy woman. I don't like to play favourites, but you are absolutely mine
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many good expressions made the story interesting...and funny too like 'the flour laughs at me'....
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Wow this is very interesting. A most enjoyable story told in great poetic style.
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a stunner...
"how they move in my mouth like bad sex
and afterwards scrapes in that awkward pause of a door"
an incredible poem...
al
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It is a real life poem ...
with wondrous creative phrases so very humane! Amazing work, in your own unique voice, much loved by most of your readers.
Have a wondrous Festive Season.
Love
Myra
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Oh those that creep
so deep into a poet's heart
that self preservation
will not deny
to pluck ourselves
from ourselves
with such aplomb
as they lift themselves
from that which leaves us
tortured
streched on the rack of
memory and dark
gasses that blink from
our neglected flesh
This love lives on as
lash to mesh with the best
of we, those remains
on depressions
darkest battlefield
we are the lost battallion
to pen the refrain
of the voiceless
but the is no rest
for us
I know how hard this was for you to write.
I only need to read you to remember, I'm not the king of internal/infernal rhyme, but mere pauper,
not a purveyor of image, but a child with verbose crayons. This hurt so very well, as I remember that dark spring, and my eyes held you close in the sharing of this.
Your biggest fan, and smitten demon childe.
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Rob, I just want you to know how very much I adore you, actually love the bejesus' crap outta ya, lol, but also that you just have WAY too much talent for your own good...for else how the hell can you write an even BETTER poem then the poem itself in just the comment box??? lol
Stop showing me up...you...you POET you!
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I have missed your work, always so fresh, witty, and damn insightful. Excellent to see you posting again.
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one of your finest... everything i love about your poetry is right here
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Bless you, sweet Cat. As always your kind remarks make more than my day...it actually makes me feel that maybe just maybe I can one day become a REAL poet.
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Outstanding...
Fuck-a-doodle-do I've missed you and your pure poetry Darcy! You don't just rock you carve the rocks that centuries from now others are going to wonder-like at Stonehenge-is this where something ceremononial occured and was worshipped? I ADMIRE your bravery in coping with the telescoping of your life into an existence and considering suicide as an option all by yourself...you didn't post pity-me-please-release-me poetry...you walked the walk with the weight across your own back...hell woman...you have lost the guiding lights in your life...those that we love are imperfect like us...but they light our lives with the love that is from a true space and place...when we know the good and bad about another soul yet still find them whole...you're whole life has shape-shifted...had to learn to adapt to the emptiness of the duality of duress and the marrow deep need to obey/convey/deal/be real ...reality is very different from a matrix movie which spans science fiction in ninety minutes and earns incredible credits...i forgive your reference to as dry as the english...whether 'tis our language or our ways we are not arid but moist as any freshly rained on thing ready to grow new shoots of green to grow...we do not have even dry humour here...everything has legs and lives...and english lives in the language of every poet and poem that writes in english...at first I thought the mention of lillian had been adapted from lillith...my faux pax...was subconciously seeing a reference to the discarded before the new invention to ease/please with Eve... yet you almost flip reveresed your universe and the supposed universival...you are not lillith...lillian...or eve...but on the eve of your own new tomorrow walking with the weight of sorrow...how they move in the mouth like bad sex...without affection..with a mechanical action/reaction...in an angry summer that finished hating me more than you...omg...I love you...someone else actually knows this feeling...this level of introspection after being raised with flour and told to flower...dearest...you weren't in actuality seeking suicide...much like many others...but euthenazia...a deep life long sleep away from the pain...the fuckology of life is without the pain we are sometimes only aware of what we've lost and at what a cost....when we are finally able to walk with the weight of the cross...nb re mercy's scrape/scap...either/either work...scrap is to fight...you had quiet a fight...glad you came out of it fighting hon and I won't pretend words can magically heal...here's the kapow...20 summers on I still miss her every day of my life...her photo is in my bedroom and the first and last thing I see...yet she is alive inside of me in memory...if Mitch Ablom was right...she will be one of the five people I meet in heaven...don't despair at the number five...everyone that chooses you you get to meet too...and pure poetry lives eternally...
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My darling dearest...the only outstanding thing about this piece is how it drew out such a magnificient critique from your exquisite pen.
I am always stunned that I am stunned at your deep perceptions, your winsome deductions and of course your startling sense of compassion. Again, I think they should bring tributes of gold and fresh virgins for your altar and find your words far more poetic than my pathetic attempts at the art form. lol You are always so very kind to me and it never ceases to humble and delight me that you seem to know me more than I do myself. Yes, this has been such a hard fight. The language more seeped than my usual brew...and yes, I know that although this is about her, it's also about my own survival. I sometimes think I push the empathy envelope too far...that I don't just finish with a mile in a shoe but must travel the entire fucking globe in them. This time, it really nearly got me. And if she really felt as bad as I think she did, then yes, I applaud her courage to step out when she did. And now, I can stop blaming her as well...and perhaps even me.
In any case, you are my wonderment, my testament and one day if Goddess is so kind, I will embrace you as tightly as I hoard your marvelous words.
PS. being as dry as the english is my highest compliment as I have always wished I could be so droll. lol But you're right, you kids o'er the pond are as juicy as the summer fruit...it's only your intelligence that is never wet.
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Wow. Welcome back. Here's proof that you still most definetly have it. An amazing write!
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It's so good to read you again. Been too long.
In the first stanza, line 6 - should that be 'scrape'?
I love the image in the 2nd stanza, of dough, and being held by the last lumps, made me feel it. Then the final line of the 5th stanza had huge impact. I appreciated the play with 'woolf' and the allusions to V's suicide.
I think the poem could have ended with 'for this woman who is the best judge of her own interests'
I like your ANs. Suicide of a friend forces uncomfortable evaluations and finally, permission and acceptance.
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Those author's notes make this even more poignant, i have dealt with the subject, deal with it often in my capacity at a junior football club, young men who lose their dream of pro ball, fail finals, lose a girlfriend...all seems out of kilter but then we never ask the right questions at the time, we often ask them too late. C
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