I haven't really worked out what I think on this yet, but something Elisha said gave me an idea and it links with something I've started doing again recently and posting on these boards. Elisha mentioned how "Artists express their feelings through their works of art and very rarely know how to communicate effectively with words." I used to write a lot, and it really helped me. (It also sometimes scared the heck out of me...). Well, I don't really know what a lot of my fears are. Yes, bad things have happened to me ... but as with Elisha, I'm not sure these things make me *afraid* as such anymore. I just know that the only times I've come close to giving a picture of how my fears work and how difficult it feels to get back to living sometimes is in some of my poetry. So here's one of those poems...
The Village Idiot’s Roses
I was always at home with my mirror,
My own terror, still terror,
And my backward woven life,
Looking inside outwards,
Breathing in scents and other's compliments,
Blowing out flowers. My face is a mirror
To the moon. But, O Mother, look,
Look what hid behind my mask,
Look what my skirts are made of. --
Black sky, black crepe.
Blow, Mother, blow. -- Those roses still burn
On my window sill, still rearrange my air,
Pierce protective circles, protective fear.
They point towards my darkling eyes,
Thorn flickers. They needle me.
They have swapped their eyes for pins in this village.
It hurts to weave. It hurts to sigh.
It hurts to watch them watch,
And think they know me. They call me mad,
Whispering sentences, and never stop
To question him, down by the pond,
Collecting pins. They simply laugh
To see him bent on sharpest reds.
They stole the magpie's eyes,
Plucked mine off the cloth, and spun them round.
Scenes unravel to a nothing wrap.
Smoke unravels over blackening bowls.
The villagers lend their looks, their tongues,
Their 'phones. I heard them
Backwards when I was alone.
Twelve ******s won’t let me go back.
Go back to that fire. -- It won’t burn away.
Go back to the pond. -- These tears
Can’t drown a nothing man. Poor fool.
And I have pricked my finger on these roses,
Here, behind these walls, behind these thorns,
And strangely careful shadows,
To die in fairy-tale again. And I’m so tired
Of deaths, this breathing in and in,
That I could sleep. If I could sleep.
People are not like fish: they do not work better battered.