Tag Archives: Body

Forget everything

red zone river

(Image: Iain McGregor)

 

The land was empty,
alone,
bereft of the world
that once occupied her,
was she mourning
for the lost sounds
of children’s
hearts and feet,
pounding to the beat
of their laughter, lives
and freedom?

A no-man’s land,
mile after mile of barren
green, of do-not-enter, no
unauthorized access, of long,
stripped harakeke clumps
and a naked river
that mends its way along
cracked roads
and blocked off streets
with names
that used to belong
on google maps,
but now when you look
all it says is
forget everything.

Forget what breathed
and flourished here,
the barking dogs and
sleeping cats, the
gossiping neighbours
and lifelong friends
sharing food
and love and stories,
their water, porta-loos
and their breaking, aching
exhausted hearts.

Forget how the earth
shook and cracked
and ripped apart,
once, twice and
5000 more times until
you can forget
no longer, for the shaking
earth lives here
in your bones now.

Her core is buried deep
in yours, like a ghost
and a vampire, she haunts
your nights, and treads
lightly through your days,
at your side, ready to pounce
and steal
your breath,
when your children are too far
and the building is too high,
and there are too many
people between you
and the exits and in this
new city there are too many
buildings that could come down
and even though
the shaking ground
was only a bus rumbling
past, your body will
never forget. And you wonder,
you wonder,

is this what it means
to grow up
and out and in and
through, to be pierced
by loss and life so that
your body is marked
by the world,
holds and becomes the world
and it is all the same,
the world and you,
maybe there was never meant to be any
forgetting,
maybe that
is the whole point?

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Post-script

blue-1326154_640

I want to be blunter, sharper,
hotter. To provoke,
to burn, to sear your
insides with words.

I want to stop
bargaining, with
God, the archangels,
and the universe (I want
to know where
to put my faith
and rest there, as if
I were already
in heaven).

I want to stop
offering to be better,
kinder, and more loving
to my body, in return
for a benign
biopsy result, as if
rewards only come
to those who live
the worthiest of lives.

I want to stop
trying to trace a line
from A to B,
mark out a trail and
follow the breadcrumbs
as if finding an X
will lead to the gold-
en cure or somehow,
at least,
give reason to the
reasonless, the random and
the inexplicable.

Like, maybe, I haven’t
eaten enough green and diverse
fruits and vegetables, or done
enough cardio exercise that
really got my heart rate up,
or maybe I spent too many years
smoking menthol cigarettes
and losing my mind
in alcohol infused binges,
or is it because
I stressed too much,
worked too hard,
and drank in pain
like I was swallowing
water. Or maybe I just
waited too long to
have my babies,
and spent too long
holding anger, instead,
so finally it found a spot
to set up permanent home,
in my breast. Or maybe,
I kept too many ‘bad’ secrets
that weren’t mine
to keep, or maybe
I just never
loved myself enough.

Or maybe, it’s like
my nine year old son,
the oldest, and sweetest,
poet I know,
just said,
‘why do people
have to die, it’s so unfair
and so easy, you could
get hit by a car
or a bus, or a
missile.’

(Post-script: it was benign)

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.

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.

This body

The following are some excerpts from a longer piece of writing titled ‘This Body’…

It waits, impatiently, 
hungrily, hopefully.

It wants to be still,
to listen,
to sever the ties 
to guilt, obligation, 
and fearful living.

It wants to fall to the ground
cracked open with light,
and morph  
in the womb of darkness,
into even a moon sliver 
of all that it ever imagined 
it might be.

It wants to write,  
to dance,
to glimpse its strength
and trace its contours
upon the clay of the earth.

It wants to move,
to stop, 
to breathe.

It wants to laugh, uncontrollably, 
and to weep,
for as long as it takes, 
the tears to heal the hurt.

This body wants to sink into the abyss of love,
to be loved and give love
to make love and be love
to feel love 
and touch love.

This body wants to know wisdom, 
truth and forgiveness,
deep in its core, 
its cells, 
its synapses, its blood.

It wants to know where to find bliss, 
how to lay down on a bed of nails or
a mountain of feathers 
and surrender,
before it’s too late to ever get up again.

It wants to discern its own needs and desires
before they are moulded
into words,
slowly and gently, moving
toward them, into them, beyond them.

It wants to touch beauty, 
when it sees itself, 
inside and out.

This body – 
a warrior, a vessel, 
a moment in time –
wants what it wants.

Sink into your body, let its story unfold…what would it say?

I want to be kind – last small (HUGE) stone Jan 31

I want to be kind
But not a pushover

I want to be gentle and compassionate
But so often I am just grumpy and irritable

I want to be loving
But too often anger wins

I want to be content
But I am permeated by discontent

I want to be settled
But I seem to crave change

I want to be grateful
But really I want more

I want to be with others
But usually I’m more content alone

I want to be decisive
But it’s hard when faced with a thousand possibilities 

I want to be here
But so often I really want to be there

I want to be happy
But I wonder too much what that really means
to truly be able to claim it

I want to be thin
But I resist the discourses of patriarchal culture 
And pretend to eat what I like

I want to live in harmony and balance 
But how will I recognize them
Without first knowing disharmony and chaos?

I want to be rich
But not at any price

I want to help
But sometimes I just want to sleep

I want to be intelligent, witty and clever
But mostly I just muddle through

I want to be original or grand
Rather than mundane or inadequate
But I’m working on genuine and authentic

Sometimes, I want to be you, or him or her
But always I am just me,
imperfect, whole
and truly blessed.

In need of water – small stone Jan 29

the red flame of fear
burns alongside
the pale blue of worry.
they have lit the whole
of my insides, scalding me 
into impotent incertitude.