mort mot juste

maio 06, 2008

in His mansion by the seawall

I sat in His richly upholstered chair
inside the gigantic room
the dusty room
the grandiloquent room
long postponed fate of the day
-a single obsessive thought -
that ever i was born to wait for it to come.

the waiting felt like eating an apple
in the pouring rain, like drowning
in the turkish bath,
like keeping my feet in a bucket of ice
marinating with doubt,

no more.

maria 2:17 PM 2 vociferando estavam

maio 05, 2008

children's manuscripts: further adventures of t. and i.

so tristan and isobel
were having a fight
because he was leaving her
on another paper ship
he said was going to save the people
who lived in the ocean
from the salt-stealing plancton-eating
waistcoat-wearing flies

but isobel in all her wisdom
had a much better plan
to cut the irises in the garden
one by one at the stem
and watch them wither all together
then leave handprints all over the flowerbed
and finally so blame the dog

tristan my sweetheart
whither you go?
his mind was made up
and his suitcase with marbles
all packed up to go

tristan tried to tell her
that the lights would go off
and the house was blue again
it was that time of the year

but isobel knew quite well
how sad it was to give in
to words spoken by someone
who's less then fifteen

so as the tale is often wiser than the spring
she went on on collecting petals
she could sow to her dress
and as the night came near
she felt a strange bit of fear
and on the back of her neck
she felt a breath from the sea

as the winter grew colder
she began to wonder
about tristan and his quest
and about his stubborness
had he understood
after a long childhood
that there was nothing in the ocean
worth dying for

it was tempestous weather
it was bread and salt water
an old picture of his father
and a long distance home
tristan was somewhat surprised
when he fell asleep one night
and got steered right back
to his hometown Belfast

it was a saturday herring
told him where he should go
and on the monday afternoon
the fish was nowhere to be seen

the other part of his dream
was a little less wry
a papier mâché-made captain
sang him irish lullabies

and if this story was silly
wait till you hear the end
isa's weary flower business
was left there awaiting
because she couldn't do anything
until the return of her friend

and yes, she felt quite stupid
still crying for someone
who hadn't learned yet to count
from thirty-four to one

one day her pet pine marten
went to pick her some berries
try to see if she'd cheer up
but he didn't succeed for another month

for her hope was almost over
their names on the bedcloth unwoven
when at last came tristan humming
through the trees
with a bag of reasons to cry

isobel looked broken
sitting on the porch floor
staring fixedly at something on the wall

she found him hard to believe
like a steam or a vision
he found her hard to recognize
the wall still looked blue
as did her fingers
and the flowers she had cut a year before

when tristan drew nearer it was hard to see her
but i believe what i saw was one true smiling tear
how it ended's a secret for no soul to hear.

maria 3:08 PM 0 vociferando estavam

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