Lena Corazon
Flights of Fancy
Category: Poetry
if i could speak, i would
we’ve done it:
survived that awkward first date–
coffee in a crowded cafe, to be sure
that you weren’t a crazed psycho.
things went well enough in that
this-could-be-lovely kind of way
no room for a guarantee,
just an abundance of what-if and maybe, perhaps
and so we met again for something
slightly more real–
creatures and cocktails and science,
a chance to exercise conversation and wit,
to search for spark and possibility.
we’ve weathered strained smiles
stuttered stumbling
stilted silence
and shared those first secrets
hardly blackmail material
but truths that move just beyond
polite small talk
ones that scratch beneath the epidermis and
graze flesh, sensitive and living and warm.
and now we stand on the brink
of something tenuous and cautious, fragile
as a dewdrop on spun silk,
ripe with disaster and glory alike,
a portal to a new beginning
or, perhaps, yet another ending.
— —a breath— ——a touch—
if you take my hand
will i ever want to let you go?
or will i be impossibly tethered,
wings clipped, bound and chained
to a future interminable?
could we be a pair?
or will this flame sputter out
and die
too weak to withstand the breeze?
one false move
one tiny mistake
could cost us everything:
a sacrifice of mornings not yet lived
the death of kisses never exchanged
the loss of a million dreams and wishes
uttered into the empty night
present yet not, hovering
just beyond reach.
if love is a leap
then i have never
been inspired to jump
until this moment, with this ache
in my heart
growing ever deeper.
to leave you now would be
betrayal and cowardice both
so i stand with you
listen to the echo of your heart beat
with mine
and wait for the knowledge that this is
love
strong enough to endure.
I wait each day for the
spark
the moment when words will
trip and twist,
collide, collapse, congeal
transform from Mundane–
“I need change for a twenty”—
to Profound–
“If I could change like this twenty,
shed my skin from a single bill,
wrinkled, crinkled, rumpled and worn,
into the many, the fresh, the new!,
then this life would be worth
the price.”
I search the ever-present noise
that fills the day-to-day,
scrying through the screams and the shouts
like the old fortune teller and her glass,
reading between the lines
of shrilly ringing phones,
blindly groping through Chaos so profound
tangible
it is like walking through molasses floors
an avalanche of puzzle pieces and lego bits
a sonic wasteland that destroys all thought
a minefield with no escape.
Exhaustion dogs my steps
sometimes suffocates with a hand inescapable
and if it doesn’t succeed, the litany of should-do-and-failed
will finish the job.
And still I search for words
listen with ears deafened to the glorious music
that comes from a phrase well-turned
a passage that is unflinching in its truth.
I long for the sweet kiss of a single sentence
try to wring them from my soul like blood from a stone.
There is nothing
—-yet—-
Nothing is never the Absence of Something
but the Beginning of Everything
Pregnant with Possibility
Rich with Could-Be
Inexhaustible with Chance.
So I wait
listen
grasp at words with greedy hands
cram them into my mouth
swallow without chewing
and pray for a moment
of pure inspiration.
Another Round of A Round of Words in 80 Days is upon us, and I am delighted to participate. For those who have never heard of this wonderful writing community, ROW80 is the writing challenge “that knows you have a life,” and allows we over-worked, over-scheduled creative folk to build our own goals.
After a rough and tumble year (or two… or three?), I’m all about treating myself with flexibility and care. I gave myself permission to take the weekend off from NaPoWriMo, because I’ve learned that placing pressure on myself is counter-intuitive. When I tell myself that I’m a failure, or that I’m lazy, or that I’m useless because I couldn’t wrest a few minutes out of my life to write, I ruin any chances I have to be creative for days, and sometimes weeks, to come. So Round 2 of ROW80 is all about being kind to myself (like fearless leader Kait Nolan writes in this awesome post), about allowing myself to make mistakes and to stumble without self-flagellation, and about actually remembering how to enjoy the act of writing, both academic and creative.
Before I get to my Round 2 goals, have a bit of a poem. I’m trying out a “lune,” a modified haiku form written with 3 words in the first line, 5 words in the second, and 3 in the third. And based on the subject matter, I’ll bet you can all guess what I was dealing with today…
“Migraine”
brain throbs incessantly
senses stunted, tongue silenced, thought completely eliminated
migraine strikes again
—-
And with that, here are my goals for Round 2:
Dissertation:
- Finish 2 chapters by the end of Round 2.
- Start coding data sources.
- Hammer out an inventory of data sources.
Creative Writing:
- Read 1 piece of fiction each week.
- Figure out how to move forward with TELL ME NO LIES.
- Write at least 20 poems for #NaPoWriMo.
- Start blogging in May–maybe with weekly book reviews? The jury is still out on this one.
-oOo-
I’m still trying to keep things simple, as you can probably tell, but with the way things are going at the moment, simple is most definitely best.
I’m looking forward to rocking the ROW with the rest of y’all! Anyone else participating in NaPoWriMo this year? Any big goals slated for this Round? Can’t wait to see how everyone is doing!
For today’s poem, I used one of Kelli Russell Agodon’s NaPoWriMo prompts:
Open the closest book to you to page 46. Count down 7 lines. That is the first line or the title of your poem.
The closest book to me was a copy of Emily Post’s ETIQUETTE; the line in question contained the wonderful fragment that I’ve used for the title, and as one of the lines in the poem itself. It opened up an interesting way to explore the question of male privilege, and how that privilege harms not only women, but men themselves.
boys don’t cry
because emotion
is
foreign
sissy-stuff
only girls–
irrational and
silly
sweet, with sugar
and spice smiles,
countless neuroses
bubbling over
feelings that
explode–
ever experience.
boys become mentough
strong
softness has
no place with them.
and these are the lies that we are fed
the falsehoods that
entrap
ensnare
justify a world where
women cannot lead
and men cannot feel
two different species
perpetually estranged
but even under these conditions man can revealsinew and bone
muscle and tissue
a heart that
squeezes
flexes
contracts
trembles with the enormity of
love
and desire that
is more than
skin-deep
because we are strongerwhen we can be whole
when we can
transcend
the myths that
hamper
constrain
damage
and we are more powerful
when the old dualities
male/female
rational/irrational
mind/body
dark/light
are dashed to dust
for then only
love
will remain.
Happy National Poetry Writing Month! For all 30 days of April, Flights of Fancy is going to be filled to the brim with poetry, and I cannot wait to get stared. I adore prose, could write short stories and novels forever, but there’s something deeply visceral about stripping back language to its bare bones, slashing away till there’s nothing left but feeling and emotion. As poet Mina Loy once said,
“Poetry is prose bewitched
a music made of visual thoughts
the sound of an idea.”
That being said, for this first day of #NaPoWriMo, I’m toying with bridging poetry and prose, using poetry as a tool for fleshing out character and backstory. Today I draw inspiration from Tempest Dumont, the heroine of my steampunk tale, TELL ME NO LIES. While Tempest spends most of TELL ME NO LIES recovering from heartbreak and trying to track down a crazed killer, “Tales Twice-Told” explores a bit of her past, chiefly her chance meeting with a rakish, dashing, and an all-too-dangerous airship pirate.
“Tales Twice-Told”
He told her once
that Home was prison
and she believed him
because Love had never grown
between the four walls where she had been born.
“Home is the Coward’s last refuge,”
he said,
“a fortress to hide from Nature and Neighbor.”
He’d found his Freedom in the skies
untethered
untamed
He answered only to the Elements
and thrived on their Chaos.
He called to her,
a Man freed from Fear,
and promised a life that could be her own:
“Clouds will line your Parlor;
stars will be
Blossoms
in your Garden,
the
Heavens
themselves will be yours.”
He gave to her
wings of Bronze
strong, stealthy and true
born from
Genius
and the need for escape.
She left the World of
too-weak
too-scared
never-good-enough
stole away
in his winged Chariot.
For the first time in her short life
she found Happiness
that was neither lie nor pretense
but was as real as the
Coal
fed to its Furnace,
the massive Gears that tilted and
whirled
in its Engine,
the scalding Steam that poured
from its Pipes.
But Dreams are not all they seem:
The Heavens can be cold
unforgiving
and Freedom from the world
may be a Prison in disguise.
The most dashing
Hero
can be revealed as Villain
and Tales
twice-told
may not always be True.
Over on Poets on the Page, the wonderfully creative Morgan Dragonwillow posted a prompt that caught my fancy. The theme is “Wild Self,” and includes a passage from one of my favorite books, WOMEN WHO RUN WITH THE WOLVES, by Clarissa Pinkola Estes:
“The doors to the world of the wild Self are few but precious. If you have a deep scar, that is a door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much you almost cannot bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door.”
The poem I’m sharing today is an old one, written in 2012 after I first read WOMEN WHO RUN WITH THE WOLVES and was learning to listen with my wild Self. Given how the chaos in my life has overwhelmed and choked off my creative output, the central message continues to resonate.
white door (Photo credit: lamont_cranston)
“Recalled to Life”
I.
a wild woman beats at my door
(connect, she says)
i ignore the call
too busy too rational too damned busy to listen
theory beckons
there's a thesis to write
nothing left over for her.
(come to me, she cries)
i refuse
too much grading too many emails too much reading to give in
academia devours and when it doesn't
friends need healing
happy hour therapy sessions
nothing left over for her.
II.
a wild woman wails at my door
(do you know what you have become?)
i bury myself in objectivity
waste away shrivel up bones dry as dust
all the water in the world can't save me
nothing left over for her, nothing left for anyone.
(listen to me!
hear me!)
i am hollow
no defenses no barriers no strength to resist
the empty dark is all i know
a sightless soul my only companion.
III.
a wild woman breaks down my door
(i have never been polite)
i cannot turn away
she surrounds me overpowers me illuminates every shadow with light
no longer the socially awkward academic
a lividly beautiful goddess is all that remains
(look at what you really are!)
for once i see
the reflection is true:
winds and water at my command, elemental fury
creation and order birthed from inhuman acts of chaos
pen wielded as scepter and sword, rod and staff.
(remember this, she whispers)
i listen.
i follow.
i write.
—
This is a blog hop! Click the link below to view the other participants in this month’s poetry challenge.
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My muse has been a relentless, pushy bitch of late, demanding that I write, throwing ideas at me with the force of a hurricane, poking and prodding every time I try to fall asleep, screaming for my attention whenever I decide I’d like to do something mindless, like zone out in front of the television screen or play a video game.
I friggin’ love it.
So in honor of the creative chaos that is now my brain, I thought I’d share this little poem, which I wrote the last time my muse went on a rampage. Enjoy!
“Danae” by Gustav Klimt (Photo source: Wikipedia Commons)
“Muse”
i shut the door on you ‘cause, christ, sometimes a girl needs a little peace and quiet without words flooding her head. but you are crafty, sly and you know how to insinuate yourself through the most narrow crack in the plaster the sliver in the wall like zeus becoming rain of gold to envelope royal danae— though instead of impregnating me with a demigod you fill me with poetry and tale till i overflow words drip from my fingers ooze out my nose fall from my eyes like fiery tears scorching all they touch. and, fuck, i’d like to stop the deluge but i inside i crave it could never turn it away. it’s addictive, this raw rush of creation and i write write write write with the mania that forces the girl and her red shoes to do the dance-to-death i write, though my body is racked with exhaustion i write, though there are blisters on my fingers for there is nothing else i can do no defense to save me from your shrieks and cries i was born to hold this pen i will die clutching it still
There is something about Ash Wednesday that always makes me nostalgic for my childhood. This shouldn’t come as a surprise–I was raised Catholic, and went to Catholic school almost all my life, from 3rd grade through college. These day my religious beliefs are best classified as “complicated.” Still, I’ve come to accept that it’s next to impossible to undo all of the beliefs and traditions instilled in me as a child, even if they don’t quite match up with the ways that I have evolved as an adult.
This poem came, rather unbidden, a few months ago. As Lent begins, and as the world grapples with Pope Benedict XVI’s historic resignation, it feels appropriate to share it with all of you today.
“Ash Wednesday” by Julian Fałat (Photo source: Wikipedia Commons)
“The Old Ways”
the ancients ordered their lives around nature
patterns of stars, paths of planets
movements of the moon, transitions of tides.
i order my life around the academic calendar
and so i measure the rise and fall of time by midterms and finals,
the too-short spring break,
the never-long-enough summer vacation.
but there was a time when the year began
with the lighting of the easter candle, and the swirl of incense.
when the washing of feet
the carrying of a cross
meditations on death, sacrifice, loss
preceded rebirth and transformation,
ushered in the start of a new cycle that would be better than the last.
there was a time when the advent calendar
with its hidden chocolate treats
and a candlelit wreath—
three purple candles, one rose—
stoked my anticipation for christmas
when we marked the birth of the babe in the manger
with midnight mass and voices raised in song.
and there was a time when we set aside forty days
to walk in the desert.
oh, we giggled as kids
gave up silly things like candy and soda and television
but we wore our ashes with sober pride
spoke our confessions with sincerity.
that was when school days were ordered around prayer
when we thought the rest of the world worshipped as we did.
but i left all that behind
turned my back in favor of practices more humane
less corrupt
practices that allow for love in all forms,
preserve women’s control over their own bodies,
protect the most innocent within the flock.
and yet…
and yet.
i miss the old mysteries, the old stories.
i long for a whiff of that sacred incense
the glow of the ever-present flame
and i wonder if change is even possible
if “reform from within” is more than a fairy tale
if i have a responsibility, a duty, to try.
because mother church, no matter how i struggle against her,
is my home
and when i try to let go, her saints, her teachings, all her beauty
haunt me still.
Nothing says “quirky” like running around with a lampshade crown.
In October, I participated in a wonderful poetry celebration known as OctPoWriMo. One of our early prompts was to write a poem inspired by the word “eccentric.” The creative process remains a mysterious one to me (and probably always will), but through whatever machinations of imagination and muse, “The Dangerous Weird” is the poem that emerged.
I wrote it thinking of all the wonderful people I know in my life who have weathered the storm of being seen as different, odd, less-than-normal. It’s a celebration of that amazing, dangerous weird within all of us, something I think that my online community of creative folk can appreciate.
This community is one that inspires me and encourages me towards all sorts of mischief, like rambling about my love of Hugh Jackman and sloths, or dancing around on tabletops with a lampshade on my head (as seen at the last #myWANA Twitter party). The chance to be fully myself, knowing that I’ll be accepted, is an incredibly rare one, and one for which I am truly grateful.
So this one’s for you, gang. Enjoy!
“The Dangerous Weird”
i am eccentric
you
say
because color tastes of
sound
because history is
my dwelling place
i was a child with a calligraphy pen
my mother's borrowed
cameos
a collection of teapots
a girl enchanted
by amulets
faerie
unicorns
imagined elven revelries
worlds that exist only in my head
acne-cursed chubby sally-jesse-raphael-bespectacled awkward child
too smart
too ambitious
teased and tormented for the dangerous
weird
(because idiot child bullies can't pronounce "eccentric"
and don't trust the abnormal)
but i am a forward-thinking girl
despite the obsession with dusty antiques
adulthood was my ticket to survival
and i
waited
honed and polished my weird
shined it up like the best silver serving set
to put on display for
rare souls
that understood
(password: "kindred spirit")
today i find the peculiar ones
those
grownup off-beat children
catch them running through the rye
together we make a mountain of
weird
a paradise of
strange
to us, the song of color
the taste of word
is to be savored
time is neither linear nor measurable
and the world
is
our playground
eccentrics one and all
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