Sunday night poetry DUMP ‘daily bread’ - 05/02/2023
Every Sunday night - more a less, almost, or rather when I’m up to it, I share a few of the week’s parts of writing. Sometimes unedited, sometimes these words are later edited. Well, I’m moving this practice here from Instagram.
It should be said, my recent work plays off tangents around circular life, which includes themes of life and death, introspection, grieving, and memory. All life encompasses some form of an end which in turn makes way for a few new beginnings.
Enjoy x
DAILY RITUAL
I am yearning for something faster and harder which comes in with no justification or just cause, just comes in as she pleases because the love is harder and straightforward and excited and straight talking can happen overnight. And my former, younger, gentle hearted-ness was eager but a little, a fair amount, let’s get real, a larger amount, almost never spoke or said or challenged due to, guilt-tripped acid-heart- eating, heart-racing-anxiety or accepted from anyone, anything of any gift, because what reason would that happen. And I’d been told this was a secret, an exchange and under what circumstances is this life free, because nothing from the elder generation away from friends and lovers, sorry even lovers, a particular lover, was never free almost, no, nope, always transactional, recorded, needed, Adam’s origin sin repaid and replayed as a debt to the myth which needn’t exist and we feel the water run for longer and thicker because somehow water freezes and thickens, like the grease stain from stolen meat, at the dinner table wearing another’s Sunday best. This is transactional debt, transitional life with transactional karma, and the clock swings to ten-to and my younger, hopeless, anxious, acid-burning hearted, soft-hearted, shy, beautiful, charming, oh so charming beautiful self with beautiful eyes and a head on the shoulders, rubs heaven scented oil from a gifted shirt from a newer generation of friends and lovers and her Amma as she leaps into a new home.
DAILY MEMORY
You do not hate the thing
In fact, you love them, it, the thing,
the cause, the person, the time,
the place, the memory, the meal,
the shirt, that tie, the scent.
It is the absence of a thing
Which is disliked, can not stand,
can not understand, can not stop,
can not dream, can not sleep,
can not stop a tear from falling,
can not see nor feel,
can not bare to be without.
You do not hate them
It is their absence
Which you dislike.
DAILY SUGAR
There’s a fine line
Between love and hate
Between peace and war
Between thunder and lightning
Between 0 and 1
Between life and death
Between night and dawn
Between a string at her strongest
And when a string hits her break
When it was everything and then nothing
When you were sugar and then salt
When we strain voices in anger
And with the same mouth
Whisper I love you
With the same breath causing hesitation
With the next breath releasing all pressure
With the same heart which burns with fire
And with every heartbeat, she keeps us alive
When this was everything
And all of a sudden nothing
The only constant seems to be
You were once my sugar
My sweetness
DAILY BREAD
The absence of daily bread
Sugar on the tongue
Music in my ears
A sight for sore eyes
The softest of touch
The deepest of holds
The loudest of laughter
The ever-growing fruit
On ever-growing trees
The greenest of grass
The largest of fields
The warmest of suns
The warmest of bread
DAILY CONVERSATION
The absence of daily bread
Our conversation, your presence
Has gone missing, you used to leave notes,
On tables, signed with personal affection
Where now you’ve left some affliction
The sun sets and rises with different colours
And nights are a little too quiet
And I can no longer ask how the day unfolded
How much did you play
How was your friend who lives, way way, all the way over there
Did you finally get some rest and are they feeding you well
You’re sounding…well
There’s missing and then there’s ‘missing’
And we’re missing an awful lot, maybe the weight falls heavier in places you’ve left
Where the absence can’t seem to help but fit its nature and shine all the way through. Where’s the laughter, the 3am abroad call.
My emptying out of all thought.