“Home” by Warsan Shire

The power of poetry; the power of words:

no one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark
you only run for the border
when you see the whole city running as well

your neighbors running faster than you
breath bloody in their throats
the boy you went to school with
who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory
is holding a gun bigger than his body
you only leave home
when home won’t let you stay.

no one leaves home unless home chases you
fire under feet
hot blood in your belly
it’s not something you ever thought of doing
until the blade burnt threats into
your neck
and even then you carried the anthem under
your breath
only tearing up your passport in an airport toilets
sobbing as each mouthful of paper
made it clear that you wouldn’t be going back.

you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied

no one chooses refugee camps
or strip searches where your
body is left aching
or prison,
because prison is safer
than a city of fire
and one prison guard
in the night
is better than a truckload
of men who look like your father
no one could take it
no one could stomach it
no one skin would be tough enough

the
go home blacks
refugees
dirty immigrants
asylum seekers
sucking our country dry
niggers with their hands out
they smell strange
savage
messed up their country and now they want
to mess ours up
how do the words
the dirty looks
roll off your backs
maybe because the blow is softer
than a limb torn off

or the words are more tender
than fourteen men between
your legs
or the insults are easier
to swallow
than rubble
than bone
than your child body
in pieces.
i want to go home,
but home is the mouth of a shark
home is the barrel of the gun
and no one would leave home
unless home chased you to the shore
unless home told you
to quicken your legs
leave your clothes behind
crawl through the desert
wade through the oceans
drown
save
be hunger
beg
forget pride
your survival is more important

no one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
saying-
leave,
run away from me now
i dont know what i’ve become
but i know that anywhere
is safer than here

October

Beneath the newly fallen night,
a baby cricket - lost in hope -
crawls inside a vacant wine bottle,
escaping, an unexpected frost.

Re-lay-shun Ships:

past the breakers,
beyond the let downs
and blow ups; erupting
in swirls of chaos,

of swaying hips
and pursed lips,
floating out in
a sea of noise.

Apropos

The abrupt slope
at the foot of echoes
chanting, "No!"
-- halts her
galloping feat -- Just
seconds before
losing her shoes.

My Soul's Instinct

Every breath my lungs fight to take betrays my soul's instinct to find a way out; whether it be with alcohol, some varying form of dissociation, or a hard collision with a tree by the side of the road is of little importance, thankfully.  I've fought these demons before -- but I thought the birth of my son 17 years ago had saved me from ever having to fight them again. I was wrong.

It began six weeks ago or so when one sunny afternoon as I sat at my desk working on whatever project was at hand, I caught an ever brief glimpse at the horizon's slow descend into darkness.  It didn't really register within me at the time what was coming because that horizon hadn't come into view in so long. Looking back now, I should have stopped everything and walked away to take a break.  I've been saying for months that I needed to take a vacation from life and check into a hotel room for a few days and just write.  Since there aren't any hotels that allow guest to stay with only a payment of a thank you and a smile -- I was unable to take that break I instinctively knew I needed. Instead, I busied myself with more and more projects; working toward my goal of saving the world -- forgetting myself.

Within the last four weeks I have googled, "how to commit suicide and make it look like an accident" twice.  As I said earlier, luckily my soul's instinct to escape doesn't seem to matter how it escapes, so long as it escapes.  So, I make a drink involving bourbon in some fashion and put my headphones on blasting Nirvana, or Ozzy, or Seether, or anything loud and hard -- escaping, if only for a moment or two.  Sadly, with drama lurking in every corner -- the reprieve is short lived and not nearly cathartic enough. Defining the drama is unnecessary for this current piece -- drama is drama no matter what shape or form it takes that we can all identify with. When the horizon has darkened, being blindsided by an insensitive bastard's discarded gum on the sidewalk -- now on my shoe -- can feel like the end of the world. That, and I had to put my dog to sleep last week. Drama. Is. Drama. Is. Drama.

Monday, August 11, 2014 at 7:08 pm I read my first post about Robin Williams.  Within 10 minutes I somehow knew his death was not an accident.  I knew it.  I knew it with every fiber of my being because I saw me in his story.  I saw the masks he wore, though very different than my own.  My very first thought when I came to the realization of what had happened was, "how can I be expected to fight this battle when the genius Robin Williams couldn't fight it?" Selfish? Yes.  But it's what I thought -- it's where I am in my life.

This week has been difficult.  The people of the world lost in conflict and hate and chaos -- digging a hole the size of itself. There I am, standing on the side of the ever growing hole, ready to leap, but I don't. I -- in my weakened, fragile, heavy state find myself reaching into the hole to pull others out.  This is both my blessing and my curse. On a very instinctual level, I know it's something I have to do; and yet, the weight of it all is suffocating me.  Robin Williams leapt into the hole.  Will his leap pull some others out?  Will it cause others to leap with him?  Will it cause me to leap with him?

The conversation has been started, but it will fade away like everything else that is hard -- and nothing will have been resolved. How do we begin shrinking the hole, thereby reducing the amount of souls it sucks in? Why is it that I have reached the bottom of this piece without once using the words suicide or mental illness? Both words have impacted my life -- so many lives for way too long and yet, stigma is still attached to them making it laborious to even softly utter them. The Band-aid was an ingenious invention -- but we, as a whole have got to stop slapping them on a broken society and look for ways to mend and heal what is killing us... what is killing me.   My soul's instinct is to build a bridge of unity for the world -- and yet, here I am falling apart.  Ironic.  Yes. In order to help others I have to help myself, I know this... and yet... I feel lost.

Occupation

Her big girl panties heaved
out the window,
twirling her dress: spinning heads
          as she passes
          flashing smiles.
The chess board
collecting dust
in the corner of her room.

Nod

I rolled her name up
in my left t-shirt
sleeve, like a greaser
firing up his t-bird

on a Saturday night
drive-in date
behind windows steamed--
in a wet dream

Feed

a pint or two of stout
just to ease my pout--

a pint of ice cream before bed,
sweet dreams to settle my head

But hunger pains gnaw.

fast food drive-thru after midnight--
dreams of you shatter my might

throwing my belt on the highway
my pants are screaming, "may day!"

The hunger pains still gnaw.

one and a half dozen cupcakes
in the oven, set on bake

hot chicken wings sizzle in the fryer
new pants, a size up in the dryer

Still, the hunger pains gnaw.

now a heart knows a thing or two
about gnawing pain of rue--

it is swift and sly
makin' up lies

That hunger pains need to be fed.

Three Strikes

the glass fills higher
while the bottle empties.
she becomes a liar--

the temps fall to the twenties.
my clock ticks louder;
the snores come sooner.

I've never been a doubter
but today, is so much closer
to the day after tomorrow.

accept-shun

as dawn broke
the sun trekked
over what must have been
a million miles, or more

rapping upon her
window pane
day in-- and out;
the curtains, always drawn.

Timing

Every now and then
Seven days a week
I sit back in my own critique

and I sink into that moment

That moment when
I fell in love with you;
That moment, you never knew

I was waiting, all alone.

Miss

when love speaks
to my heart,
it must be traveling
without a DAMN
map, cause
it gets lost
in the translation…

Estrangement

Why do you turn on me your gaze–
now that in your arms to my rival lays?
I am astound that after all that deceit–
you wait for those times to repeat!

I have seen it with my own eyes, Oh God,
That you raised your glass amidst the crowd!
When you opened Hafez to tell your fortune–
another name came for you in the light of the moon.

Go now to her and mind not my heart, goodbye!
You are the sun, she is the Earth and I am the sky.
Shine on her, on her as I am sitting down, afar–
I travel alone on the shoulders of a falling star!

Shine, shine on her as I stand up and my heart–
cries for her, for her fate, pain and plight!
To let you go is true love’s decree–
She has your arms, you heart remains with me!

You, you who took me away behind the curtain–
How come didn’t you reach to my secret garden?
I let go of you and the warmth of your arms–
I was never after the flesh and its charm!

If I ran to you so eager and fervent–
a unison with Love, was all that I meant!
And not your embrace to light my darken night–
the dream of Love shines so brighter than your sight!

Now that you are sitting next to her, my rival–
Let me cheer to your union, not plotting a reprisal!
Our tale is gone lost and its dusts are to shove–
stay with her and her undying love!


Forough Farrokhzad (1935 – 1967)
Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2013, Halifax.

Adapt

Is this dizziness I feel
Caused by that shot of liquor
Chased by that lager
I drank?
Or, is it from
That door revolving
That swung this way
Instead of that...perhaps?

Futile

I could never race a Nascar;
Like thoughts, speeding
around in semi-circles
with no way out
frantic
and a fiery
crash when the tiniest
of things goes awry..

--------------------

like us
on the day before
our lips
never met

Deteriorating Conditions

the clouds hanging
low, their blanket of regret
embracing me.
they are thick but dry,
blocking the light
leaving all in its wake
dark and cold.
in straits, I shiver
allowing the darkness
to swallow me

whole.

Horniness

The world rocks and shakes
Beneath my hips 'n such,
Much like hairs in a crossfire
Sprung from thoughts in a moment;
Frozen like daiquiris we say
We'll drink one day; alone --
together in a celebration of nothingness...

The Spring Fling

Thoughts leave

Like the scattering of light

flung

Off the last leaf;

Before night

falls...

Until the shadows rise

Out of lost dreams

sprung

From yesterday's lies;

Tomorrow, I redeem

the fall that waits for winter.

tired

the warmth of the spirit
from yesterday's memory
runs down the thoughts,
numbing the pain
chasing the shame
to the corner of the room
where the light switch
is turned down, like sheets
waiting for the weary to rest.



(a drunken poem)

InUnDate

Funny thing about days--
they bleed into the night, and repeat
with a vicious symphony of endless
chords that breaks then betrays;

never before, only after

a grand introduction, reduced to a clatter

filled with promises, not fulfilled: 

can't or won't, I don't know which, and

what the hell does that matter?

it hurts, just the same

where the winters grass or the leafless trees
lay naked, shivering in the night
where the light had once been,
dying in the midst of the deep freeze

where the nights bleed into the days

with a vicious symphony of endless

chords that breaks then betrays

as the sound of the frost falls across

my soul; like the sound of glass

falling from careless hands.