I did it!

So I spent most of the day yesterday finally putting together a little poetry/reflections compilation of my writing on Lulu.com and I actually ordered a copy to be published! I'm pretty excited. I mostly did it as a trial run for my Creative Writing class this year, but also because I thought it would be cool to have an actual book of my writing. You can check it out by clicking on the title of this post, which will link you to the Lulu website but I don't advise buying a copy yet (if you were even thinking of it), since I want to get my copy first to proof it, and see if I want/need to make any changes. Anyhow, I'm pretty proud of myself for actually doing this, so I wanted to share. :)

the murky miasma of the dream-world

I am trekking across a floor of glass that stretches over a dark abyss that has the sensation of no bottom. I can’t clarify how I know that the vastest sprawl of nothingness spreads beneath my feet, but I have never been more certain of anything. The journey is treacherous because the glass is polished to a slippery sheen and dangerously thin. One false move, one wrong step, and the glass will shatter and I’ll begin tumbling through the dark void. If that happens, I know I’ll panic and desperately claw at the edge, but the broken glass will cut me open and my blood will colour the glass slick and ominous. I’ll plummet into oblivion, and the shards will cut me up along the way until there’s nothing left of me, until I’ve bled out and my pale shell continues wafting through the nothingness, eternally searching for peace and wholeness. Such a fate terrifies me and I seek to avoid it at all costs. So I continually struggle, tiptoeing across my existence, the only one I know, maintaining some kind of tenuous hold on the oily glass surface and pray that the foundation will hold. Pray that my sanity will keep me on this side of the abyss. I am Prometheus, eternally struggling against my fate, dreading it, avoiding it, yet realizing the resistance may be a worse fate than giving in to the inevitable engulfing by the thick black abyss. Suddenly, in my desperation, I fall and I hear the glass crack, feel the sharp glass penetrate my skin and I’m sinking. But it’s water beneath me, not air. It’s still dark, thick almost, like oil, but I’m still sinking and I can see and taste and smell my blood staining the water red. This can’t be happening. I have to get out; I have to find the glass floor...

turning text into poetry

Last November, I attempted NaNoWriMo, which is a challenge to write a 50,000 word novel in one month. I didn't manage to finish it, but I wrote a few sections of text that I am proud of. One of the main characters in this attempted novel is a woman in an abusive relationship and as she stands in front of the mirror one morning, she makes some observations about the signs of her abuse. I turned that piece of text into the following poem:


Magic Eye

My skin is smooth,
the skin of a mango,
discoloured that way too.

The bruise is beautiful –
numerous shades of blue and purple.
Its design could draw me in,
like an exceptionally striking piece of abstract art
or one of those magic eye pieces,
where the picture behind the shapes slowly swims into focus
as you stare past the surface.

I’ve always loved magic eyes;
it’s as if they are sages offering some wisdom
with trembling outstretched arms.
Their gift waves in and out of focus,
as it slowly solidifies into something tangible.
But if you haven’t learned the secret
to grabbing that wisdom
before it slips out of their shaking fingers,
you won’t find it.
That kind of wisdom
is only available for a select few.

I gaze at my bruise,
get drawn into its dark beauty
against the pale creaminess of the flesh
that stretches across my chin.

I will the story behind it to tell itself
to those around me,
to reveal the story that I cannot.
However, as I stare at it, or past it,
trying to make the truth swim to the surface,
I realize that the real story isn’t even visible to me
and I will mask it with the magic eye
of makeup and a new story.

So how can I hope for someone else
to interpret the map of my bruised body
and tell me what I need to hear?

slipping away

soon
they'll be gone
these lazy, serene, whatever-I-whim
summer days

soon
they'll be back
those crazy, insane, I'm-never-done
school days

summer
is slipping away
while
school
is nipping at my heels

let it slip
let it nip

an
I-can-make-a-difference
and
busyness-as-a-blessing
year
is about to begin

bring it on

pieces from the past

When I feel uninspired and as if my current writing lacks substance, it helps to go back and read some of the things I've written in the past that I actually like and am proud of. Here are some of my older pieces that inspire me to keep trying because something like them might come out of me again.

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I wrote this nearly two years ago, and while it is less true for me now, I still love the way the imagery (ironically) "came alive" in this piece:

Just Let Go

One of my biggest weaknesses is not being able to let go of things; specifically I can’t seem to separate myself from relational situations that are unhealthy for me. I have this masochistic tendency to hold on to things long after they’re dead, as if strangling the life out of something isn’t enough. I have to see evidence of decay and taste the rot in the back of my mouth before I am finally able to pry my fingers out of the corpse, and only then because I can no longer stomach the stench. The problem, of course, is the sickness and infection I contract while I’m clinging so desperately to that corpse.

The idea of letting someone or something go to see if it comes back to you, thereby proving its love for you, is a helpful sentiment for some, I suppose, but I need to let things go to actually be free of them; I fear that if I leave room for hope, I will become acclimatized to rotting flesh. Perhaps the truth is that only when the shackles are completely broken can anything healthy be nurtured. The corpse must be left alone to decompose completely and become fertilizer for new growth.

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This was written around the same time, after a close friendship ended in silence, on bad terms:

Muted Colorscape

Without you life is duller,
more muted.
There’s colour yet; it’s just not as bright
(perhaps because it’s been washed with my tears).
Splashes of vividness still occur
but the colour seeps out again
when I remember that you’re not here,
that you're gone along with your life and colour
along with the paintbrush of your personality
that made my red a blazing vermilion
my blue a piercing azure
and my yellow a rival for the sun.
Without you
my primary colors lack lustre,
their combinations appear less luminous.
I miss your hue on the canvas of my existence.

Mine remains an enjoyable existence.
This is not a tragedy.
But it’s not my first choice;
it’s not the picture I imagined.

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I wrote this nearly 10 years ago as part of a final project for a university course that asked us to consider how to fight injustice. I still like its recognition of my own responsibility in injustice and my desire to ignore that reality because it is more comfortable. It is worth noting that the ME at the end is capitalized for two reasons - one to emphasize my responsibility and two to represent me on another level since the letters are the initials of my first and second names (Margaret Elizabeth). Unfortunately, I can't figure out how to format it properly on the post. The indents don't work, so the visual aspect of the poem is gone, but at least the words are here.

blood-free hands (?)

i want to wrap up my
smashedtornslashed heart
without getting blood on my hands
i want to cover it with
plain brown paper, tie it with ordinary string
(so as to render it insignificant)
i want to freeze it, immoblize it, or best:
carve it out from deep within me
(it will be an excavation or a dissection –
but there will be no exploration or discovery)
leave the mangled mess to die alienated, cleaved from i
(this will be much less bloody than allowing it to stay)

i cannot let it stain me


if only i do not let myself examine
incessant throbbingjabbingshaking
if only i can submerge the nausea that clutches the gut –
the stomach could be inundated with perfume and honey
(its voracious appetite would consume it all)

satisfaction: inevitable


i want…if only…
i will not know the (i cannot call it my) heart is alive
i will not acknowledge vital statistics
i will not hear the accusing rhythm of its exhibitionism
nor its knocking, rattling rasp that gasps out truth
(it will destroy me)
how i am:
that one over there
over here
this one
this one
this one
this one too

I do not want to see this bloody finger pointing – deviation-free – into ME.

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I often find music as an inspiration for reflection. I wrote this piece a couple summers ago when I was obsessed with Death Cab for Cutie:

Comfort in the Sound

"sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole / Just like a faucet that leaks and there is comfort in the sound" - "Marching Bands of Manhattan" by Death Cab for Cutie

I wonder at the human nature to shy away from happiness. I realize I can't speak for everyone, but I know so many people, myself included, who, when it comes right down to it, are afraid to be happy and actually sabotage chances for happiness. And I'm not talking about temporary happiness, but real, deeply rooted, content no matter what happiness. Genuine joy: the kind of happiness that can't be shaken by the harshness and tedium in life.

This idea of sorrow (heartache and heartbreak) dripping into my heart and there being an element of comfort in it fascinates me. That pinhole is the little tiny part of me that seeks to destroy the happiness in my life. It's just a pinhole, miniscule and seemingly harmless, yet it allows this drip of heartache to consistently disturb my joy. And that drip is familiar. Sorrow is a reality of life on this earth and as a result I know it and am familiar with it. Familiarity doesn't breed contempt; it breeds safety and security. There's solace in the familiar. Yet when that familiarity worms its way into my heart with the same persistence and annoyance of a leaky faucet it has an antithetical nature because it troubles my peace of mind with its repeated vexations. So sorrow becomes a crutch for me; it's safe and familiar, but it holds me back from experiencing the freedom of genuine joy and happiness. When the crutch becomes unsteady or even clatters to ground for a short period of time, I find reasons to pick it up again. I create heartache because it's familiar and "safe". I keep that pinhole open just to hear the sound of the sorrow dripping through and slowly drenching my heart.

It's time to patch that pinhole, kick this crutch out from underneath me and experience enduring joy...

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And that's all for now... hopefully something new and original worth sharing will flow from my pen soon.