Monthly Archives: September 2014

Soliloquies Heard By No One

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Like night lilies, we open in the dark, breathe in the shadowy world. Our soliloquies are heard by no one.”
― Cathy Ostlere, Lost

 

Night times are the hardest.
Every star’s tip pierces the skin like a needle,
And the moon stares back expressionless at those who cry out to Her.
Drunk from insomnia,
I wander aimlessly from room to room,
Bumping against shadowy furniture and stepping on cats weaving between my feet.
The heaviness in my heart is not soothed by pressing my face against the cool wall.
The weariness of my bones is not eased by turning the bathroom faucet on and off.
Although I have lived here for months,
I have no idea where I am.
I only know that wherever I am,
I am there alone.
My ears strain for some reassurance of life outside my apartment:
A passing train,
A runaway cat,
A night bird.
There are no prayers for protection against something that never comes,
And there are no spells to make the darkness of the heart lift any faster than the darkness of the night,
But still I mumble to myself like a penitent in humble prayer.
My lips move like prayer beads,
Speaking the names of those who are no more,
Calling out to children who will never be born,
Asking for help from Something that does not exist.

I never asked to be a night lily,
Split open with innermost thoughts laid bare by cold, white moonbeams.
I want to experience sunshine on my face and to be kissed by lazy honeybees,
To know the feeling of being seen.
Instead, I bloom in solitude,
Scenting the air for no one to enjoy,
Dripping nectar for no one to sip,
Speaking for no one’s benefit but my own.

lily of the night WEB

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Creative Commons License
This work, “Soliloquies Heard For No One” by Beth Murch, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

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This is Not a Love Poem For You. This Is a Love Poem For the Creases Around Your Eyes.

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This is not a love poem for you:
It can’t be a love poem for you because writing you a love poem would make me feel vulnerable and afraid.
Horror isn’t my genre
And I’d rather “do” funny than vulnerable
Because it doesn’t hurt in the same way when people reject your sense of humour
As it does when they reject the pictures you made them with macaroni and glitter in your heart

This is not a love poem for you:
It can’t be a love poem for you because love poems are cliché to everyone except, for maybe, sixteen year old girls
-And me –
And I just can’t bear to see the contents of my heart ending up on three ring binder paper
Stuffed into your sock drawer along with similar emotions from fifty other wimmin
Or even worse
Used as the scrap piece of paper you will write your telephone number on
Before sliding it across some pub table
Towards someone who actually performs death-defying feats like writing you love poety.

So, no, this is not a love poem for you.
But it is a love poem.

This is a love poem for the creases around your eyes
Those gullies, valleys, and canyons that have been eroded into your face by years of
Sorrow’s salt, Tension’s tequila, and Longing’s sour lime
Every line stroke telling a story like an empty bottle
Every wrinkle recalling a tale like the way licking your sticky fingers after taking a shot reminds you of what just happened
And provides you with a souvenir of escape from pain and perhaps  even a promise of the hangover to come.

This is a love poem for the creases around your eyes
Those blessed splits hulled into the desert of your face by laughter and joy
Aerating the soil
Rioting across the countryside of your face like Indian paintbrush
Splashes of bright colour bursting through milky skin tones
Postcards from Heaven to the citizens of Hell
“Wish You Were Here”:
Tracing messages in secret code using fingertip pens
“Wish You Were Here”:
Using eyelashes to sweep sunbeams from living paper
“Wish You Were Here”:
Sketching your beauty with the only materials I have available to me: soft lips, hot breath, and simple tongue.

This is a love poem for the creases around your eyes
If I could have one wish granted,
It would be to live out my days floating along the crooked, lazy rivers of your periorbital skin
Awash in the moist rain forest heat of tears.
Oh, how I love each visible brush stroke on the canvas of your face
Each secret that your eyebrows strive to contain but your ocular contouring always gives away.

This is a love poem for the creases around your eyes
I pray that regardless of whoever the beautiful angel you choose to share your life with turns out to be,
She always finds time to honour the creases of your eyes with love poems.
I hope that she is a healer familiar with how to splint spirit fractures but that she leaves the scars on your face alone because those are your true marks of beauty.
When others are too quick to notice only what your brain and your hands can offer them
May she be the one who comes to your crags with a heart prepared to worship.
May she see miracles in what others call fault lines.

So, no, this is not a love poem for you.
I am not strong enough to write love poems for people who will leave them unread
I am not courageous enough to split open like a pomegranate to show you the seeds lying within me
I am not clever enough to take a cliché and make it more than a coaster for your next drink
But I love, oh, how I love, I love…
…The creases around your eyes.

paper heart

Creative Commons License
This work, “This is Not a Love Poem For You. This Is a Love Poem For the Creases Around Your Eyes” by Beth Much, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.