The Skies will still be Blue

Image

*I made the photo during a storm, from my window.

The Skies will still be Blue

You ask a bigger spoon.
The spaghetti sauce stains your shirt.
You enter a room.
You sit down and take off your shoes.
You breathe.
The tapes roll and buzz
and once in a while
everything suddenly slows down
and you want to lay
and feel the earth spasm
and synchronize;
while the sky is strangely blue.

You’re in a mall,
pushing a shopping cart;
you’re at your desk,
dousing papers
with water colors
and dead love’s last scent;
you are on the street, kneeling,
writing your name in cement,
like anything in this world
belongs to spoiled brats,

and you wake up
and you realize
it’s not you;
it’s some stranger
of human shape
claiming to know you.
Screaming at you.
Shaking your shoulders.
Speaking tongues.
You hear cathedral bells,
you hear laughter,
you hear metal hit wood,
hit dance, hit spin,
and one of the gods throws away his cards
and folds

and suddenly you are completely
alone
one on one
with your soul;
and it’s not you.

Some of us meticulously recycle
grave dusts, old pots.
Some of us avidly try to capture
clouds in syringes
and crawl in nautilus shells
only to emerge back out packed in tubes.
Labeled.
Fabled.
Stapled shut.
And we are strangely blue.
You feel the world and you faint
and you open your eyes again
and there are saints,
nurses and androids,
holding your hand, trying to fix you
with a few ounces of Novocain.
But some of us burn, goddamit,
some of us burn,
like each word that escapes
is a witchcraft,
like each mouth is a cracked cherry,
leaking out blood –
you extend your hands
and you fold
and suddenly you just want to hold
your intestines out in the sun;
you want to dig through your stomach
’till you find
yourself.
Something.
Something tangible.
Some real pain, entirely Yours.
You want to defibrillate yourself
from this achromatic coma.

Only to see it’s just you,
in your bed,
enamored with a shade
and a husk
and entirely catatonic.

And everybody hisses,
so sweet
how you can make it through;
how the skies will still be blue.

Like two-three drops of milk
can distill the cyanide.

*Well, I wanted to nap, but the folks at We Drink Because We’re Poets had a prompt in mind. You can find it here. I do not frankly know if this would qualify as an entry. The photo is, like previously stated, mine. Not a storm will pass by this city without me photographing it, but I did change the photo in a program to be this color, since obviously, I do not have a cyan lense for my shitty camera (and I do not even know if a thing like that exists) and my poem is obviously neither Haiku or Senryu which were the prefered forms.

Anyways, the poem is a scratch on the surface of how whatever is going on in my head feels. I have never been diagnosed with anything. It was electroshocks or go home. Obviously, I went home.I never know when a moment like I described will happen. I just know it sometimes will. Anyways, thanks for reading, and sorry for boring you with long extra writing ๐Ÿ™‚

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~ by Oloriel on January 14, 2014.

44 Responses to “The Skies will still be Blue”

  1. “and suddenly you are completely
    alone
    one on one
    with your soul;
    and itโ€™s not you.”

    Bam. We all can relate to this feeling. Thanks for sharing!

    • Thank you very much for reading!
      I wish the feeling was less relatable, that there was more people who would never feel like this, like an ugly stranger to themselves.

      • Yes I know what you mean–
        Luckily I think these feelings are usually fleeting, but some people live that way inside themselves until it eats them up a bit.
        Thanks again for the poem. It’s a great reminder ๐Ÿ™‚

  2. I absolutely love this line:

    And we are strangely blue.

    How true, how true.
    They didn’t mention shock therapy to me- I faked ’em out and went home too. ;0) But hey, we live on the edge already- shock therapy is for people that forget to feel things. We feel too much. I do understand you entirely!

    And hey, I think you should use more of your own photos- you’re able to create a necessary mood that embodies your writing. The two go together and it means more to me knowing that the pics are your own. Don’t underestimate the power of a crappy camera! Some of my best work was done with a 4 MP dinosaur that they stopped making back in 2003. I tell people that they should focus on MOOD more than “technicality”. Who cares if it’s blurred (even better) or grainy (even better still) or that it lacks “clarity”- so what? What is the story? What does the mood say? THOSE are the things that separate a photographer from an artist, and you’re definitely an artist. Love your work, always. And thanks for sharing your heart! x

    • Thank you very much for the words, I thought I was the only one bolting out of doc offices. I never forget, its a blessing and a curse. I really thought I did not need it. A conversation on the other hand, might have helped, but that’s just doctors for ya :/
      I totaly agree with you on the photo thing. I love the grain, the blur, the story. I don;t mind HDR etc either, what I mind is when I get labeled or annoyed while I’m “doing my thing”. Lately tho I am finding very little time to feed the photo addiction and I share the camera with my son (while I do not even dare touch hubby’s mega machine that in my eyes can literaly brew you tea if you press the right button, without him present there).
      It’s nice to meet people who like me venture inside the photo and beyond the equipement price tag โค

      • A mechanism that can ‘brew your tea also” haha…funny. :0) No, you’re not the only one to bolt from the Dr.’s! I could tell you horror stories of being locked up on the 3rd floor [shutters]; mute, lost, overmedicated: no one to talk to or even understand what I was going through. Black days…very black days. But hey, the most important thing is that we made it to the other side of the river, eh? And well..we have stories to tell. ;0) These things we’ve been though are “inner armour”. We can survive astronomical tragedies that would make others crumble in a million pieces- yes, a blessing and a curse- but something to ALWAYS be thankful for. XO

  3. Beautiful and relatable poem.

  4. That feeling of not recognizing yourself, of being a stranger to the person you are is not painful… it is nothing because it makes us feel nothing. And that is more severe than any pain and thus, we try to reach for that pain because something is better than nothing.
    Your expression can be related by many… great writing and it happens that we squirm, we shout, we try to hold onto something. After all, that is all we can do in such situations.
    Great flow and very well expressed.

    • Thank you HA, and what you said reasonates. What creates the selfdestructive conflux is the injection of some predisposed order and feeling. What gets me most enraged and furious is when somebody tells me what I ought to feel, or even worse, convincing me that I am feeling something I am not.

  5. “…and you open your eyes again
    and there are saints,
    nurses and androids,
    holding your hand, trying to fix you
    with a few ounces of Novocain.
    But some of us burn, goddamit,
    some of us burn, …”

    my favorite part…
    I like this one so so much, so many images, somewhat chopped and out of order, like a dream…

  6. Don’t self destruct as we would miss your poetry. This is very deep Oloriel, I hope you are okay.

    • Thank you very much for your concern and support! There is no need to worry, the poem was inspired by the WeDrink prompt – or in more depth, by the photo I made.

      Hope you have a lovely Wednesday! Take care, my friend!

  7. I’m burning, goddamit, I’m still burning!
    But there’s no smoke, and there’s no ash
    only the sky above
    and your poem behind.

    (U izgubljenom prijevodu: sviฤ‘a mi se) ๐Ÿ˜€

  8. prva polovina pesme negde do “…only to emerge back out packed in tubes…”, mi je nekako tanka, a onda pojacava

  9. “and suddenly you are completely
    alone
    one on one
    with your soul;
    and itโ€™s not you.”
    wow, wow and wow! ๐Ÿ™‚

  10. Wow… Wow…

    Favorite line: “and one of the gods throws away his cards
    and folds”.

    I love the photo, too. Nicely done, Oloriel.

  11. […] Oloriel โ€“ Color Me in Cyanide and Cherry | The Skies will still be Blue […]

  12. I could bore you with sooo many comments. I’ll mention what hit me in the face most…
    ”and suddenly you just want to hold
    your intestines out in the sun;
    you want to dig through your stomach
    โ€™till you find
    yourself…”
    WoW!! times of angst, when I want to get out of my skin and on a physical level..when I suffer giant hives spreading on my body…mostly stress induced. Powerful poem, my dear…nice image reflecting bluesy mood or catonic…

    • Thank you very much for sharing your thoughts and impressions with me, and mentioning me in your post ๐Ÿ™‚ Like I mentioned before, i wish these feelings and situations that I write about are familiar to a lot less people (up to none!)

  13. […] some of the posts tonight got me thinking about things and one in particular written by Oloriel made me think of times when you feel like your are just not in the right skin. Do you know what I […]

  14. Loosing oneself and finally realising and trying to grasp it back in desperation.

    I thought of the way that I have sometimes tried to prevent myself from feeling and crying.

    Pushing tears away and then creating that lump in my throat that physically causes pain.

    Where does that go, I wonder. I think it gets stuck. It Gets stuck and then races out all at once in hives and anxiety attacks and other frightful events that shock the physical balance out of us, leaving us wondering WHAT in the world is going on.

    I think that when we avoid feeling things, by keeping ourselves busy or causing that lump to exist by resisting tears, we smother ourselves.

    Sometimes it takes a while to realise what’s happened, and then, your words describe that process, where we desperately hunt for that lost inner aura.

    #Confronting

    • We are, I believe, in this situations when we or others try to dictate our emotions, when we try to materialise them into lets say a roasted turkey, which you can just cut or put in a fridge.
      Thank you very much for reading and taking time to leave me a word of your own ๐Ÿ™‚

  15. What a great poem…many great images.. but recycling gravedust… that’s stark..

  16. The phrase “while the sky was strangely blue” is going to live in my imagination for a while…fantastic turn of phrase ๐Ÿ™‚

  17. these words express that part of you that smiles in the darkness, my friend, because you know some light will always follow eventually. you know who you are, and the sprites laugh along with every scratch of your pen, every tap of the keys. wonderful poem. thank you for sharing.

    • Thank you very much for your kind words, I am very glad you liked the poem and am also very happy to know it inspired you to write your own, I would love to see it ๐Ÿ™‚

  18. I failed to mention that your photograph inspired a new poem for me. Thanks for that. ๐Ÿ™‚

  19. “oblaci u sprice” ๐Ÿ˜€ ubicu se kako se takvog nesto nisam sjetio
    “clouds in syringes” !!!!!!!!

  20. Actually this was fascinating. I love the way you wrote your poem with simple, down-to-earth words and conveyed so much.

    • Thank you very much for your comment, Kenne. What is scary about depression, in my opinion, is that there is not always something deep needing deciphering, but common things, like a meal or an object, which is choking us.

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