Maiden no more

‘(…) common-sense had illumined her. She felt that she would do well to be useful again — to taste anew sweet independence at any price. The past was past; whatever it had been, it was no more at hand. Whatever its consequences, time would close over them; they would all in a few years be as if they had never been, and she herself grassed down and forgotten. Meanwhile the trees were just as green as before; the birds sang and the sun shone as clearly now as ever. The familiar surroundings had not darken because of her grief, nor sickened because of her pain. She might have seen that what had bowed her head so profoundly — the thought of the world’s concern at her situation — was founded on an illusion. She was not an existence, an experience, a passion, a structure of sensations, to anybody but herself. To all humankind besides Tess was only a passing thought. Even to friends she was no more than a frequently passing thought. If she made herself miserable the livelong night and day it was only this much to them — ‘Ah, she makes herself unhappy.’ If she tried to be cheerful, to dismiss all care, to take pleasure in the daylight, the flowers, she could only be this to them ‘Ah, she bears it very well.’ Alone in a desert island would she have been wretched at what had happened to her? Not greatly. (…) Most of the misery had been generated by her conventional aspect, and not by her innate sensations.’

Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d’Urbervilles, 1891.

Adelaide Augusta Floyd Passingham, by Eveleen Myers, 1889 — National Portrait Gallery, London

Imperfect

Inspired by a phrase from Brianna Wiest, in her book: The Pivot Year

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I can read them

Again and again,

A thousand times on hand,

They won’t get any better

Or any worse.

They are what they are,

Poems,

Or better said:

I was born with these chains.

So I either touch the paper

And keep the thread,

Accept that who I was is who I am,

Or I bleach it all,

Kill everything,

Make art as pure as souless

And be liked, at best.

I don’t recognise my voice

When I believe they stare,

I can’t give anything

If I still think: “I want to help”.

Be foolish, and expose myself?

And hope that this nauseating fear

Will let me breathe

Now and then?

Or wait.

Re-read, erase.

Do it all again.

Serve coffee, be safe

Until I leave this mortal shell.

I thought that

How bad I wanted this

Was useless to mention

So be brave,

Feel it:

There was a purpose to this imperfection. —

---

The Sign

It’s like a shadow over me.

It rains on me.

Acid rain,

Guilt in its very essence.

I survived.

There must be something I need to do in return.

You understand, I cannot sleep anymore.

I cannot look at the sky in awe,

And wish,

And wait

For a grand sign.

I’m alive.

I am the sign. —

---

Fall

And one day

I saw myself

Fall

Like an autumn leave

Slowly

Spinning

In the wind

Going

Down to the ground

But there was no ground

To catch me. —

I have so much left to cry

I have so much left to cry.

Did it occur to you?

That perhaps behind those many smiles

Lies a silence

That won’t die.

I have so much left behind.

All of those days

Of joyful trust

And of those dreams

Barely untouched…

I never came to realise

That I had so much left to cry

Before I’m ready

To hold one’s gaze,

Before the sun

Can rise again.

I have so much left to fear,

And question,

And pray for.

So much to be seen

And cared

And fought for.

And as I know,

This day will come:

Inevitable rise,

From the depths

Of a black-ink storm,

I shall soon get up

And fill the sky

With bursts of laughter

And merry light

But I have so much left to learn

That I don’t know

Which one will first

From my mistakes

Or deepest hurts

Teach me the greatest way

To grow.

I feel them roll and roll,

Like long time dreams

Buried in snow

Down by my cheeks,

Gently, they roll.

So I stop by the window

And sit.

The winter cold

Blushing my cheeks

Gives me a little time.

To rest

And think.

I can see clearly now

From a bird’s eye view...

All the days I have denied

Fighting with fierce for what was mine

I never seemed to understand

That overwhelmed and somewhat tried

I still had so much left to cry. —

---

The sound of life

I’ve walked alone

Far

And far

Down many roads.

Until I found a place

Where I could long

For silence.

Little did I know

That silence wasn’t there.

Wherever I went

It never came.

But I did hear

The sound of life

Roaming the field

Like a newborn

Breathe

At last.

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