Poetry for Moths

AND PANG [I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,] [some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.] [I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.] And pang it hit me with the sharpest feeling, Away and away at my core it was slowly eating. Accept the facts! It screamed, Consequences always accompany dreams. And pang it hit me again in the chest, That feeling, I thought I put to rest. Where am I, from and where does one belong? When from home one is long gone. Lovely home, whatever you are, buried deep in my mind Through sleepless nights, the thought of you comes alive.

Poem for the fallen "And the dark wind is murmuring that nothing ever happens" Why do they say the dark wind murmurs nothing? Jody died. I didn't know him. But is it nothing, to cease? Some metaphor might have been appropriate, But that day we excused figures of speech. Poetry seems disgusting, No cathartic response good enough for the audience sat in their seats. This is real. This is death. No words can substitute, or sing, no words in their fancy-dress. - For Sorcha.

Being lost in an unknown place is scary. Being lost in a place you ought to recognise is mortifying. There I stood, frightened amongst familiar faces, again with that feeling of déjà-vu. Where am I? I asked a stranger. Le métro de Paris, she replied. I recognised her voice. Oh, I muttered, am I far from the 17th arrondissement? You mean the place where you've lived for four years? I didn't quite know what to say, but yes, I suppose that was what I meant. I woke up, sweating.

             No fue un día extraño. Ni siquiera era frío ese día. No había ninguna señal de melancolía, y nada para prepararme para cualquier cosa. Era un miércoles y me acababa de despertar. Me conecté al internet para revisar mi correo electrónico y mis mensajes de Facebook. Eran las seis de la mañana, y por eso no era tanto raro que no había recibido ninguna notificación. Sin embargo, un minuto después, oí un clic , y me di la vuelta. Apareció un nombre en mis mensajes que no había visto en al menos dos años. - Sé que no hemos hablado en, o sea, un año, y no se porqué. Y no se lo que está pasando. Con ella. Todo lo que quería decir es, ¿ has oído? Sabes lo que pasó? Demasiado orgullosa para contestar que no sabía de que hablaba, respondí que claro que sabía lo que pasó. Que ella me cuenta todo, y que no necesito que alguien que ahora no conozco me diga lo contrario. Como puede ser que este tipo sepa más que yo sobre mi mejor amiga. No puede ser, porque no es verdad.

      It was cold in England, and it was a Wednesday. It was December, and it was 2012. The road to Wimbledon Village had been entirely blocked off by the snow. London, in its entirety, was frozen and disconnected. No one would be visiting tonight, it seemed. Outside, the rain poured down. Seven thirty in the afternoon. Her cracked fingers were running across the broken wood of the walls. The red paint that had once masked the deterioration already present in the house long before it’s renovation was peeling off at the slightest touch. The furthest window at the end of the east wing hallway had been stripped of its glass by the storm last winter. Occasionally, the breeze would whip back her uncombed hair and her face could be seen, which was rare. It was dark now; although the sun would do her face no justice. She was beautiful, but in a distraught, tormented kind of way. Her eyes had been perpetually filled with sorrow as if they were small teardrops in glass cups of psychologic

Jeu 29 Nov 2012: Réécriture  Le Rapport de Brodeck: Incipit À travers la vitre poussiéreuse, le soleil brillait, laissant une bande de lumière claire se former au milieu de la chambre. Dans cette fine bande on percevait les bords de certains meubles, et une chaise importée d’Angleterre qui datait de 1846. La pièce était serrée, petite, sombre, et rempli de feuilles vergées. Il y avait une douzaine de papiers, tous déchirés et chiffonnés, tachés par de l’encre de chine, étalés sur le lit minuscule devant la petite fenêtre. Sur la table singulièrement grande, devant la chaise anglaise, se trouvait la machine éreintée, couverte par un tissu de soie verte. La machine, elle aussi était très vieille. Elle avait été fabriquée à la capitale, très loin d’ici, à Menscheim, en 1910. Les touches « S » et « W » étaient cassées à force d’être utilisées, on se trouvait donc obliger d’utiliser les touches « Z » et « V » à la place. Les autres touches se bloquaient constamment, comme si

Fuck you for all the things you ever made me think. Fuck you for thinking I wanted to think that I caved in,  Fuck you for not trying.  For not waiting, and for lying.  For cheating, and for breathing.  For leaving,  And for being.  I wish you’d just give up trying to do what you do best.  You test me,  And bend me, So far that no one can mend me.  You play the same game played for decades But somehow you make me want to make myself stay. Fuck you for thinking you’ve got control, That’s the one thing to me that you owe.  Fuck you for trying to break me, Take me, For pretending to want to save me.  Fuck you for staring when you don’t care and, Fuck you for trying to rid me of my secrets So you can keep them. Fuck you for trying to take everything that I have Because you know that it’s that bad,  And that I’d tell you,  Because I left you because in some ways you left me too. Are you listening? Attraction to

Sometimes a glance, a shadow, And then it fades. Then nothing. You’re cold. Don’t. Endless scuffles to and fro, yet There are times where silence is here. December silence they call it, month of the dead And skyrocketing statistics. Or do they? Don't they? They should. Don’t. Jump. It's the sound I dread the most. Whispers trailing off Swept away on the back wings of a passing moth; And it’s a unique note, preserving reality with a gravel-crush. Don’t. Jump. I said. When grasps are slippery and voices become dust, Hanging on to the sky's last and lonely silver thread, Lost. When my everything almost withered And my soul burns, When life is smothering me, I will always yell at you: Don’t.  They loved you past, But I love you present. So don’t. Jump. I said.

Thurs 5 Dec 2013: Sonnet           The Great Gatsby Chapter 7 A voice as soft as melting snow One look was all it really took But rash and quick the soul did go Wild car, wild act, and Daisy shook And so the liquid beads did fall All colour from her apples fled No help did she attempt to call And poor old Myrtle was but dead He grasped her hand showing her love Don’t cry, don’t scream, don’t fear, my heart To seize the shame will be my job I swear til death do us apart I swear just whisper in my ear Sweet murmur, you’re what is most dear.