The Consequential /\poretic

You wondered aloud if you would ever be happy,

if you weren’t forced to be for the sake of others.

I question how we’ve come to popularly define Happiness;

how we presume that such an inherently internal state

would have to be externally expressed so as to be real - 

in other words, “recognizable” to others. 

And surely my friend, Happiness is our ideal end,

and all of us “human” in this constant and common quest, 

but Happiness will dress itself so differently, uniquely, unto each of us, 

that our “ideal end”, though common, will remain but our own. Your own.

And yours will perhaps not be able to notice the other’s, or even my own,

as they sit pleasantly side by side, as we both smile indiscernibly. 

I should hope then, dearest friend, that we simply be able to recognize our own,

its worn out denim cuffs, or impeccable silk lining, or rhinestone-clad collar…  

To each her own. 

I should hope then, not to need others to affirm it, or worse, awaken it;

not to need others for mine and yours to be real, and or felt.

I should hope that we will one day no longer seek to convince them,

of what will be entirely sufficient, by virtue of our living it. 

In the bottomless belly of my glass, 

the lightness of my life becomes bearable, 

Contingency becomes merely a word, 

no longer a leaden curse, 

simply a pair of loose trousers, 

or a favorite worn-out chemise. 

With every sinking, soothing sip,

every murky inhalation,

my feelings,

one by one, 

drop their swords and gavels,

and line up, shoulder to shoulder,

waiting for me, at long last,

to size them up.

And I feel… nothing.

Then peace…

Quickly frightened away by horror. 

Can this be the mindfullness they speak of?

Then why… horror?

I rather felt momentarily, though pleasantly, mindless. 

I am, as they preach, no longer attached?

How could I be?

There they are. Without. 

My feelings. Displayed.

Curious, contradictory creatures, 

expelled unwillingly from the flesh that once bound them - 

the flesh that fought against, but too often succumbed …

But they have been wrenched bloodily out of my mind, 

with ink as thick as tar,

first applied, then poured, then splattered, 

smeared generously onto a past

so as to then quickly, efficiently, 

wrench it violently far away from my present.

Present - 

Sensing purely,

Mindful -

I see, 

I hear, 

my senses work gleefully, 

no longer submitted to Reason, 

no longer interpreted, doubted…

But Joy is absent. 

I rather feel

Presentless, 

feelingless,

mindless,

and what balances above two very small, shaky feet, 

sways, imperceptibly to most, 

but nauseously to one. 

Faded form, without content.

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,

A medley of extemporanea;

And love is a thing that can never go wrong;

And I am Marie of Roumania.

Ten women, ten hearts, ten minds, 

all impossibly within my grasp, 

but mid one of their sentences

my feet, my heart, my mind,

led me paces away, 

discretely distancing my Self,

in order to reclaim it.

The generosity of a friend

is in letting you go, 

letting you be alone,

knowing for once you aren’t. 

I found a sturdy picnic table, 

and there I lay beneath tiny red leaves,

windblown helplessly as they grew,

now as horizontal as the waves crashing

rhythmically against rough pellets, 

left very much indifferent.

In the United States of America,

Americans can find leisure 

in America’s finest State Parks -

where all can commune with Nature, 

for free. For once. But no littering. 

As I lay flat, back against boards,

breeze from the lake 

canceling unwanted noise,

I heard the leaves whispering…

Foretelling my future, 

if I dare.

Don’t you remember? 

You were there, after all. 

Perfectly silent.

Your hands cradling the back of your head,

staring beyond the sky’s blues, 

the tip of your elbow brushing against my right ear.

Your gift is my sweetest solitude. 

In your company, 

which often is your absence,

I know I could never be less alone, 

never be more myself, 

and less apologetic. 

I sat up to face the lake, 

as you lay weightless, without flinching.

And I smiled because your hand

did not unfold, did not come to rest 

comfortingly on the flat of my back,

for it was already there,

always has been,

since you left New England, 

since I left France. 

What I had written

was no longer true.

I swept my hand 

across the page - 

thousands of letters

now cramped into the margin.

Raising the cadavers

closer to my lips

I blew determinedly

And smiled

without a trace

of happiness,

beneath alphabetical

confetti, 

lazily fluttering

-suspended-

not knowing yet

where, or how,

to rest. 

I remember things

that never happened…

having worn out

all of our memories.

My joints

disobey me.

They know,

if they were to bend,

I would collapse.

Your Absence

is as light

as lead.

This is for all those who never believed in pure love, 

you know who you are.

You who believed in abstract love, 

unconventional love -

love with two strong i’s and no weak we,

without submission, without compromise,

love without parameters, no tape,

no front or back cover.

You who believed in

Love found in poems

written in blood -

love found in books

with cracked spines 

and notes scribbled in the margins 

next to tears dried into the ink before printing.

You who believed that common love was an act of bad faith

that the world, and humans, 

and every woman and man

and every woman and woman

and every man and man

had gotten it all wrong

and repeated the same fucking mistakes for centuries.

You watched couples,

supposedly in love, 

desperate for that greater WE, 

that US that makes the I 

somewhat more bearable.

You sneered,

thinking:

those schmucks, 

they can’t find happiness on their own

they need someone else

to provide them with purpose

with affirmation

with meaning.

thinking:

They need to be needed!

They want to be wanted!

At any cost, 

preferably the other’s freedom

to be, and love, and do

whatever she, he, IT may want

to be, or love, or do.

But then…

there’s always a then

 - that fucking THEN - :

You met the one.

Of course you didn’t know it, 

because you don’t believe in ONES. 

Now you’re a schmuck, 

just like all the other schmucks, 

but less of a schmuck

(only infinitesimally),

because you know.

Touch me, touching you. 

Stop thinking, just touch. 

Skin on skin, let the heat carry you far away from your now. 

From your then that was but a few instants ago, but is no more, 

only will be again too soon, 

but still isn’t. 

Softness on the 

tips of your fingers, 

tip of your tongue, 

the taste of distraction has never been 

so sweet, 

so true. 

Distraction because 

only temporary, 

only momentary -

you cling to flesh as 

you cling to time, 

the time not spent being alone 

with your thoughts, 

with your words 

half eaten away by the bile of your own bitterness. 

Breathe in the coolness of the present, 

let it slowly drip down your spine and 

awaken your senses to the surroundings 

you’ve been neglecting. 

Sunlight that melts onto dewy skin, 

still tingling, 

seeing old colors in new clothes; 

the rhythm of another’s breath 

as it fades into the shades of silky slumbers; 

the congruous curves that rise and fall, 

moving in harmony 

with the being between your arms, 

with the beauty between your fingers, 

that life within your grasp and yet, 

entirely beyond it.  

The good, the end, 

nowhere in sight. 

Fool! there is no 

end,

but the one you’ve chosen,

and since you haven’t settled 

on any particular trajectory, 

keep meandering, 

in and out of tune 

with want you want, 

what you should want, 

what you could want, 

what you can want. 

As long as you 

still want, 

still should, 

still could, 

still can, 

so should 

your arms 

keep reaching, 

embracing, 

touching. 

Touch. 

Touch as you never have 

and never will again, 

with fingers ready to explore, 

to delight, 

fingers always ready to rip open a new story, 

fingers that can stop 

time. 

to recall what I had promised myself I would forget. 

And I did forget. 

I would think of him and refuse to indulge, 

refuse to bleed any longer - Refuse to go on. 

The pen would drop, 

the brush with time dried. 

No more words for him, 

no more drawings of two. 

Fo some months I assumed his silence was deliberate - 

an attempt to love me as best he could. 

Which was not at all. 

Not the way I had loved Him. 

You lost your name, and gained a pronoun.

Him.

The one they would all have to be compared to, 

dragged into a line-up and observed, 

first with amused indifference, 

then with cruel tenacity 

and a desire to reenact a past that never was. 

I was nostalgic, 

suffered viscerally of this nostalgia, 

of this fiction I had crafted, 

that never came to be. 

And yet, he was, and he did. 

Love me.

That is, in his own way, 

and with deceptive yet tender affection. 

I despise Him now for that very affection, 

as I still long for it. 

And yet, 

were he to touch me, 

this very moment, 

I would have to break my glass on that experienced hand of his. 

And what a shame that would be, 

because my glass is filled with whiskey, 

and that would truly be a waste. 

I wouldn’t put it past me, no. 

But between the whiskey and my pride, 

the two would have to quarrel some before reaching any consensus. 

The funniest people are by virtue, the saddest.

I’m neither. I simply made the mistake of loving. 

The best decision I consequently made, was to love again.

And then more.

But never the same way.

I was half asleep when I finally registered the radio alarm, a few minutes past seven - I cannot face the day yet. And then I heard the announcer, and his words, and my eyelids vanished, and the day had begun. 

Adrienne Rich has passed away, at the age of 82, a great American Feminist Poet. 

A life reduced. 

Adrienne Rich has been gone for nearly two days, she died this past Tuesday. And I did not know. And I, my knowing, matters so little, and yet, the distance created by that absence of knowledge, has floored me. Rich’s voice was one I carried with me, have carried with me since I first read Diving Into the Wreck. Like many. It was reading herTwenty-One Love Poems that allowed for Rich’s voice to come within, to be integrated. As all of us who love to read, and read to love, know - there are voices so familiar, in their ability to articulate the heart’s song, that they are immediately ‘absorbed’. It is a moment of pleasant rupture, the beginning of a dialogue between yourself and the mind behind the ink. Call it an instance of recognition, but I find that word to be dishonest. To recognize is to have seen previously, whereas this encounter is the first of its nature. A dear friend of mine often returns to a single author, a single book, a single sentence to articulate the state she finds herself in… the unbearable lightness of being. Rich, gave me words to understand my own state, my own status. 

She is gone, and I try desperately not to be saddened by this. Her work remains. Her words, her struggles, her life - but there are sometimes no greater presences, than absences. 

It is such an insufficient testimony of love, to offer thanks. Actions draw us nearer to our goals then words, and yet words, for some of us, are our actions.

Rich writes:

What kind of beast would turn its life into words? 

What atonement is this all about? 

—and yet, writing words like these, I’m also living. 

(VII, from Twenty-One Love Poems)

I have grown weary of late of the popular and easy political discourse that has devolved into polemic, devolved because of its ostentation, and lack of sincerity, lack of knowledge. Everyone has an opinion, for the sake of being opinionated, for the sake of appearing to be informed. There is an absence of humility in the face of how complex all situations must by nature be, if only given the complexity and innately contradictory nature of single human beings. My experience of politics has become one of increasing polarization, and the only truth to surface from this division, is our collective ignorance. When did we acquire the experiences, the expertise, the right, to know, to judge, and to convict. At 23, I am humbled constantly by the forests of question marks I wander through daily. My peers act like lumberjacks. I know why. I understand why. I was raised to always know, even when I didn’t. My reluctance to further contribute to this charade has inclined me to severely shrink the parameters of my wisdom. For months I have focused my attention on the personal. Know your biases before pointing out anyone else’s. But this was a mistake. And I return to Rich, with less grace than I had hoped. There cannot be a separation of the personal from the political. Our world does not permit it. There is no art, for the sake of art. None worth that label, in my opinion. I foolishly have dwelt on questions at the heart of my own person, questions of love, of agency, of reality, believing that subjective answers were within my grasp. Those questions, necessarily, are political. The question of love, of loving, for example, was at the core of Rich’s work: how to love, and who one was allowed to love, and in what ways should that love be manifested. As a woman, and a lesbian, these questions were of particular import to her, but they are to all of us. 

There are many paths to understanding how and why we love, all of which should be ventured on, namely the path of psychoanalysis (I find myself still skeptical of this one, despite reliable encouragement from trustworthy sources) and the path carved, the trench rather, of political systems and how they have molded us to act, to love, “normatively”. 

Rich’s voice comes to me now in a new tonality: questions of identity, of self-identification, are not a justification for solipsism (nor are they meant to bolster generalities). They are a reminder of the indissoluble relationship between the I and Us. 

Many would agree that there is often no poetry, free of politics. Perhaps more should argue for less politics, free of poetry. Poets after all, like Rich, have often been activists, with the tools to move people, where people can be moved. 

To a phenomenal woman, who will continue to inspire, who has reminded me today to do more, to always try to do more. As knowledgeably, and passionately as possible. For these qualities, are not mutually exclusive.