Aethelthryth's Ode

This is what happens when I spend too long working on my history thesis :)


I see my life before death
Before the doctor would make that cut
A well into the black pit of pus
Churning inside me
In my youth I cared for nothing
Save my father’s arms around me
Scorned on earth, a third child’s fate
The father comforted me
Married, nay sold, once to an aeldorman
Who prized so much what I held inside
that noble light, a comfort to me in darkness
Protected by God and by shame
I watched him die, unmet in his yearnings
Yet still again my spirit was tied
This time to a king
Handsome in body, yet lacking
To Me the attraction of what I held in side
The sweet promise of a reward
Richer than any man-made crown
I scorned his bed, sullied with filth
And made for myself my own name
Till that day when he tried
To still that sacred flame
To douse it in the ocean of his lust
But on that day Christ prevailed
Him and his army of angelic men
My attacker they spurned, and protected my bed
Then I fled to that isle surrounded by Fens
A gift of my first troth
before Tainted with sin, I made it new
a declaration before God
the founding of his noble house
in honor of the virgin, mother of our Lord
queen in noble strength
gathering about me, men and women alike
hymns to our Lord prayed loud and fierce
a virgin leading virgins
I led them towards the light
To the Glory of God who is good and just and strong
Who protects the weak
who exalts the humble
the lump came that year
the one that grew from my neck
a sign of my sin—a heavy cross
a reminder of days, days lost
where upon my neck hung not this gown of wool
but instead glistening ropes
shinning
displaying to all the blackness of my heart
the vanity of my soul
the lump grew and swelled—fed by death
until that day, pouring out its rage
it took my life, as well it should
then buried in the ground
in a humble wooden box
my body lay still, my bones cheating death
but my soul upward, to the house of my Lord
In my father’s embrace
At last free of all thorn.

Today Removed (7/20/2010)

Your face has become
--for me
a shadowed moon
wasted, deteriorating
chipping at the edges
slowly, achingly
I have painted you black
black to match the night
the night I cried when you called
the night I cried when you didn't call
one stroke, then another
coloring you
until your light is blown out
like a candle
like my hopes


E.

to break (04/2010)

Confusion in my heart, my mind
who is this boy calling on my door?
claiming to know me
--to love me
whispering words sweet as honey
nectar from flowers
but is this real?
or is it a delusion he worships
an idol made with clay
shaped by his hands
taking my fist
--I crush it
into a thousand shards
each one pretty, each on a reflection
of what might have been


E.

Nostalgia

(12/09)
When I was ten we played on the monkey bars
And I wished for a tail that could open jars.
After recess we compared calluses as teachers herded us
Into the garish classrooms all the while singing and clapping.

Ten years later the monkey bars hurt my untrained hands
But I remember chicken fights, scabbed knees, and thinking of you
Only as a friend.
On this empty play equipment I still see your face challenging me from the end
Of the bars
But I can’t even swing across the short distance
Without letting go

In my dreams I see a new face at the end of the bars
Where all I want, who I need waits.
But without calluses I can’t make my tall body, knees bent
To avoid the black mat, swing to you.
Each bar hurts me in places
I didn’t know I needed protection.

One bar and I shake of the pain with gritted teeth—
Too fun to quit with a little sting.
Two bars and I think about letting go, giving up
The pain consumes me and I just want it to end.
Three bars and I’m done.
Reaching through air trying to grab solid metal
Finding nothing and
Falling
Watching as your image dissolves into air
At the end of the bars.

-M

Two Short Poems

Life is real
not the cleaned bright picture
--shining and sanitary
but dirt
and pain
muddy lines
--sweat and rain
life is rough
painful passionate
but real
what you live
--no, that's not real


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


Time stands still
--for me
around me the bustle of life
movement, flow
I stand here
--frozen
waiting for
one wind, one word
time ebbs on around me
but here I am

--E.

Lost in Articulation (11/09)

Even now you don’t understand her broken sentences
Dashed with tears and shaky snuffles.
She speaks in riddles disguised as truth, which you take as truth
Misunderstanding longing for loneliness
And desire for friendship.
But how can she expect you to know when being together
Made you both fall apart?
The wall she fastens around her being is plastered with rejection
And dismissal for you while she talks about
A different man.
But what she yearns to say is simple:
I need you
I want you
I love you.
If only I could retrace the path of time and end up in your bed
At 3 am, tipsy but safe because you were there
Watching, protecting
Holding me.
She couldn’t know the truth with too much hostility between their embrace
And now without the murky baggage she has new eyes
That see reality in a past bond.
Her eyes meet the harshness of actions
And finally force her mind to comprehend
The sadness she spawned and the sadness that traps her
Marbled through every stretch of flesh.
When she turns out the light
And goes to sleep it always hits her:
You are happy and I am alone.

-M

Angry Lamentations (01/2010)

I remember when you picked the lavender from my hair
so tenderly--an embrace
twirling it in the fingers light as a feather--light as the world
or as me in a white dress twirling under the stars
with dew on the grass
on that perfect night
so long ago that it isn't real

you stand before me in my mind's eye
never as perfect as you could have been, then
on that night that never happened
when our arms locked around one another
and a new beginning was born

Here you are though, now
in this moment
unveiled, standing in your weakness
sullied real, you are naked before me
I can see you
Without the trees, the stars, the smiles
without the lies

fainthearted coward
you killed the night, our dream
not with a deft blow but instead
with the withering, writhing pain of perpetual silence


--E.