Beautiful Cynicism III

Ne sommes-nous pas, comme le fond des mers, peuplés de monstres insolites?

Henri Bosco

Don’t laugh!

Love

Fragile as glass on a sharp stone
Soft as a feather upon a plush throne
Sweet as the dew in the early morn
Painful as the prick of a rose’s thorn

This was one of my first forays in to the world of poetry (if you can call this poetry). I had always loved reading and writing, since I was a small child. One day a notice was posted at school: a journal was going to publish the poetry of school-age children.

Why?

Why are the clouds white
in the sky?
Why do the mountains
reach so high?
Why does the ocean
stretch so wide?
Why are the forests
so brown and dried?
Why does the river
run so long?
Why do I feel as if
I don’t belong?
How in this world so
mature and demanding
can I be so naïve,
small, and understanding?

I responded to the call for submissions by writing anew, and by rifling through my already-mounting stack of journals and diaries, sifting through odd bits of verse and snippets of prose. I submitted 7 poems.

Pride

Something as delicate
as a bird
Someone whose whisper
goes unheard
A strangled cry
from the dark
A child’s face
unfeeling, unmarked
No trace left
of emotion
No love there,
no feeling, no devotion
Only soft tears that fall
silently to the floor
Closed in, kept in
behind a locked door

I submitted 7 poems; they published 5. I was 12 years old! And I was thrilled. So please don’t mind the simple-mindedness and awkward structures; I was but a child

And, as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
-William Shakespeare

“Water – ambiguous, amorphous. In so many creation stories, water symbolises a nothingness from which the gods bring forth the tangible. At once bright at pure, it is also a dark force, carving canyons, flooding plains, and swelling into shipwrecking waves. But whether positive or negative, water is the most basic element of life and therefore divine.” from The Art of the Bath, Slavin and Petzke.

I was born and raised on an island. Summer days were spent at the beach with friends, each of us daring the others to wade into the frigid, salty water. Sitting on the docks in the evening, when the sun dips below the horizon, lazily dangling feet into the cool lake. Watching fishing vessels unload their catch at the marina. Having your face sprayed with a fine mist as you speed along the open water in a motorboat. Walking outside in the middle of a downpour. I love water in all its forms.
I remember nearly drowning. It’s a feeling unlike any other. As a child I wasn’t a very strong swimmer. I loved being in the water, yet was terrified of it. I was walking along the edge of a pool, holding on to the wall with my hands. I dared to make my way to the deep end; I felt the ground move away from my feet. I held on to the wall tightly. There were many people about. Someone ran past me and brushed against my hands, still gripping the wall, but I slipped, and felt the wall falling away from my hands. I tried reaching out for it, but in my panic pushed myself even further from the wall. I had inhaled and swallowed large amounts of water. My chest and throat burned. I remember seeing the water level rise up over my eyes. I could feel myself sinking. I was still frantically reaching up, paddling furiously, but the harder I tried to surface, the faster I sank. I remember my feet hitting the bottom of the pool. I told myself not to attempt to breathe, knowing I was surrounded by water, but instinct is hard to shuffle aside. Besides, I was trying to call for help. I remember actually inhaling the water, in huge gulps. It felt as though I was taking in litres with each breath. I turned my head, and saw people at the far end of the pool. All I could see were their legs and hips, dangling, dancing while suspended in the nothingness. I realised nobody could see me, or hear me. I remember looking up towards the surface; it seemed so very far away. I tried walking along the bottom of the pool. I got closer to the dancing legs, but had to stop. I was too tired. Walking on the bottom of the pool felt like wading through molasses. I vaguely remember seeing the dancing legs getting closer, but recall nothing else until I was pool side. Violent coughing. Legs so weak they feel like chewed bubble gum, all flimsy and stringy. Burning eyes, throat, nose, chest. Water pouring out of every nook and cranny of my body. I felt as though I had been run over by a large truck. I do remember finally seeing the kindly face that belonged to the pair of dancing legs that saved my life.
Despite this, or perhaps because of this, I still adore the water. I admire its versatility, relish its freshness, stand in awe of its power.  It allows us to play with it, harness its energy, clean ourselves with it, and fuel our bodies with it. It is to be revered and respected.

“Il arrive qu’un individu devienne la centre de votre vie, sans que vous ne soyez lié à lui ni par l’amour, mais simplement parce qu’il vous tient la main, vous aide à marcher sur le fil de l’espoir. Ami! Frénétiquement.“

-Fatou Diome, Le Ventre de l’Atlantique

À celle qui l’a détruit

Do you always have to tell him everything
On your mind?
You know that too much honesty can be
So unkind

Chanson: Breakable
Chanteuse: Fisher

Rainer Maria Rilke, Torso of Apollo

Welcome to my first venture into the Land of the Blogs. Cela sera un espace libre, une collection de pensées, poèmes, et perspectives proche de mon coeur. Perhaps my musings will go unnoticed, sitting unread on the virtual bookshelf for days or weeks on end; it matters not. En tout cas, j’espère que mes mots peuvent apporter un peu de bonheur et de tendresse à votre journée. Enjoy your visit; stop by anytime.