in excess

a desiring bodysplashing-164355_960_720
plagued
by external signs
and significations
for how and what
it should do-be-say

capable, competent, unique
nurturing, nourishing, giving
productive, reproductive
capable of producing
and reproducing
more exceptional creatures

an ever-present desire
to eclipse it all
to break free
defy the boundaries, categorizations,
that attempt to fix, lodge,
define
but, that enable her
to do-be what instead?

become undefined?
unmoored from:
normal, successful, useful, meaningful
words that tell her
how to live
a good life?
a slight easing arrives in her body
being-becoming ‘undefined’
indefinable

but be careful
not to substitute one category
for another
not to give up those descriptions
only to search out alternate ones

stay here
linger a while
in the indeterminable
unnameable, indefinable.
unmarked

in a place
without inscription
on the body
marking out how one, or other
should be, behave

a place
where she defines
how she exists
unnamed, expansive
moving, mobile
unmoored
unencumbered
unrestricted

she speaks
from a body’s desires, without
being marked
as different
not fitting the taxon
not good enough
not correct

because, not fitting
is always in relation to Other,
an Other who is always better.
now, there is no hierarchy
difference is the ‘norm’
in these, always, multiple
moving, subject positions

good enough is nowhere
all there is here.
the beauty of here, and there
that resists any kind of categorization
of fixed naming
of fixed positioning
of fixity

Instead, a fluidity
an always-in-relation
a situated in-between-ness
of past-present-futures.
full of possibility and potentialities
for redeployment
for eclipsing the structures, histories, and stories
that attempt to fix her
in place

fixed, stuck, frozen,
limited, restricted, reduced,
does a naming always limit?
(or, can there be power in it, too?)
or only in resisting the power
of the Other to name?

to be unnamed, outside of
discourse, beyond
is that possible?
to instead see, look
for escape, lines of flight,
places of eclipse

in naming the discourse
losing the clichés
speaking from the body
embodied writing, instead
a transformative escape into
that indefinable space
if only for a moment

no longer fixed, fixable.
an embodied fluidity
a body without organs

no longer
stuck
literally and figuratively.

no longer
defined, pathologised and fixed.
instead, categories are loosened
marks are erased
ropes are untied

she becomes
mobile
leaking, in excess.
they can no longer name her
reduce her or
mark her as being
one thing
and not another

she is always in excess
of their naming
what is less can be more and
what is more can be less.
she is always
in excess.

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’til the cows come home

It has been some time (2 years!) since I have posted on this blog and I thought it might be fun to begin again, as I’m sure many lapsed bloggers do at this time of year.  Hello again to anyone who might still be out there, at the other end of this post. I hope this finds you well and still enjoying poetry 🙂  This piece was inspired during a 2 week online writing group with the supreme writing promptress and beautiful poet, Jena Schwartz.

path fairy lights

image from theberry.com

 

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Writing Mantra

This body expects to know
what it wants to know
before it delivers its first blow
to the blank, expectant page.

This body holds fear
it will not know
what it wants, or needs, to say.
Fear, it will be wordless, stilted, confused,
unintelligent.

This body expects much.
It does not tolerate
poor quality, low quantity.
It worships perfection
on first attempts.

But, for now,
my body exudes
the impatient anticipation
of an anthropologist
excavating ancient tombs
for the first time.

But, for now,
my body bring compassion
to its well-worn fear. Kindness,
to its lofty expectations.
Openness, to its teachings.

But, for now,
my body radiates desire
for imperfection
and messy first drafts.
Listening and waiting,
for words to imprint
in spaces void of judgement.

Truth telling

Places and spaces
call forth
the art of truth telling,
once resisted
in favour of silence keeping,
in favour of
falling down
and curling up
under a hard shell
of resentment,
in favour of keeping
stum and keeping
quiet
and keeping a lid
firmly closed
on all that glitters.
No cracks to let the light in.

Places and spaces
offer up openings,
beckoning one at a time
with arms outstretched,
they make
no promises of survival,
say it, say it, say it
they chant
no care for outcomes,
only that you live
in truth with yourself,
only that you risk
that which is worth risking,
your heart, your soul, your words.

Places and spaces,
where words demand,
that you allow them
to rise up and
spill over
the edge,
into that
wide open abyss
where you can’t yet see
how they will be caught,
and you can’t yet hear
the soft thump
of their landing,
and you can’t yet know
the poems they will make
or the tears that will fall
or the love you will feel,
beyond the thunder
of your beating, bleeding heart,
as slowly, purposefully, painfully,
syllable by syllable
word by word,
you follow the geese,
the tortoise, the godwits
and all of those who have
gone before,
and begin the long,
and necessary,
journey
towards home.

Post-modern nausea

Bamboozled by some claims
of post-modernism, where doubt
seeps in under every doorway.
We take nothing for granted,
no knowledge is truth,
simplicity is mired in complexity,
the complex oh so simple.

The residence of the I is many,
in here, out there, in between,
multiple selves, true self, false self,
one world, no self.
Illusions, fantasies, defenses.
Us and them, I and thou, me and you,
all one.

My seeing is partial
My knowing is momentary
My holding on is tenuous
as each truth gradually, slowly
succumbs to the next,
merging like earth and water
into mud.

Existentialism, spiritualism, economics.
Therapy, religion, materialism.
Poetry, literature, family.
Love, intellect, presence.
The way is rocky, hazardous,
the air is murky and grey,
it is difficult to see beyond
where I am, beyond this obsession
with I, with its incessant demands for
coherence, consistency, certainty,
and freedom.

My stomach is nauseous
from throwing up its contents
I cannot digest
this choosing, or not, of one.

Silence

Together in a silence
that holds a worry
about the absence of talk,
that holds a preference
in difference to the prevailing
speak;
not always companionable.
At times it shrieks
inside my head, giving orders
I cannot obey.
Silence is golden
talk is cheap.
Solitude and writing have become
my conversationalists,
is anything lost,
or gained for those we guide,
for those we love,
when words are sparse
and silence holds us all?

Love’s residence

If I trusted
If I was free
If I was in a dream
If I was telling another
how to live their life
(not that I would)
I would say fly
I would say
follow your bliss
follow your heart,
listen to your love.
I would whisper
we never know
how long we’ve got
do it now before
that thief called regret
settles into your heart
to steal your thoughts
and words, before
‘I wish we had of’ and
‘I wonder what might have been’
become
your daily mantra.

But what if I’m wrong?
What if I’m looking
for bliss
in the wrong places?
What if it resides
right where I am?
In the thick trunk
of the old oak,
in the flying high
of the girl on the swing,
in the frisbee
floating in midair,
caught between laughter.
What if love’s already here, and
I’m only looking
into my blindspot?