Confessing to the diseased idol within me


*Image found HERE

Confessing to the diseased idol within me

Sometimes, people tell of pulling their covers
over their strained, pulsing bodies,
how they rest their heads, as luck would have it,
on the skin of the other or feathers of the geese;
embalmed in the ghastly hour before being lowered into sleep,
entombed inside the soft requiem of their regret,
stagnant, yet suspended in clawing
the remains of the loves they lost. Like addicts.
Like hoarders, like decadent beings struggling to manifest their minds
to something more then a movie scene,
they will swallow choices like gods and grieve like mortals
over torn favorite, wool sweaters,
lost coins and affairs with the cold bosom of geography.

I cannot remember what you wore the last time I saw you.

You were not like them, dearest, not at all.
You were the wild, mountain river
cruely chained to the borders of a human eye,
the artistic vomit of a three headed musician
spiraling into delirium. You were a harp of bones.
You were the hum of stars at 3 am that poisons the water
with a wish for knots of flesh to connect our arms.
Lavender aphrodisiac squized into a black dress,
my cirquis freak, my gone, my coma.

I cannot remember what you asked of me, that last time we talked.

What we exchanged were not petty, small lives choking in the dust of our pockets.
We traded gallons of warm darkness, we exchanged wombs.
A robin sang in his death, somewhere in the outskirts of the city,
on a hollowed tree separating our towns. The night
was your blanket, your mother, your poor servant;
I wished to drink you up and die,
I wished to lul you ’till we disintegrate.
I wished you returned to me, but how I envied your defiance.
I built a shrine for your decapitated wings
within the left side of my chest.

It took me years to write down your name.

I read you by candlelight for many springs in a row,
in solitude and crowd, I preached you to the passerby,
compared you, just to desire you more.
I would disassemble Saturn and don it around your waist,
I would release you like a cruel song to every radio and sway.
The others had their dinner plans and coffee cups and weather,
I had you.
The others would ponder over formulas and solutions
and fourteenth century,
I wondered where you are.

It took me years to find your face.

But you are no longer the muse spun out of desolate tears of midnight,
you peel of like a forgotten deity, an ancient,
no longer worshiped,
bleached, rented for ten dollars a view, 10 and a half
for touch. My synthetic Sun, my prodigal daughter.
You no longer smell like strawberries and whiskey.
No longer a winter on the steps of the monastery
shivering in taboo ecstasy and tearing piece by piece of your cloths
to feed the fire.
No longer the girl that offers her breasts to the Moon
on the walls of the Ottoman fortress,
no longer the drunk whore of Baudelaire cheating on the world
with a meadow of wildflowers and breadcrumbs,
no longer the savage blood of my heart.

It will take me longer than I have to let you go.


~ by Oloriel on December 28, 2014.

47 Responses to “Confessing to the diseased idol within me”

  1. This is very intriguing writing, a poem that must be read several times over and slowly. It is a poem that yearns to be read out loud, to speak and listen to at the same time. Kudos. Smiles…>KB

  2. This makes me want to add another comment for the previous post – epic poems.

    A feast of images as usual; these are my faves:

    “chained to the borders of a human eye”

    “harp of bones”

    “small lives choking in the dust of our pockets”

    The entire last stanza…. 🙂

  3. “Excellent poem” or some other flowery platitude would not be enough a compliment to pay your poem.

    You used quite a few of my trigger words and ideas, such as “requiem of my regret” and “a meadow of wildflowers and breadcrumbs, / no longer the savage blood of my heart”

    …which are similar to “doom’s music loud, followed by unrespectable silence in their parting in the receptacle / outside her college years ago, roses decomposing, now composing regret’s requisite– / the self-deceit that a sapphire sings of a ring, a dream: a deceased wildflower requiem” in my poem from August 2013 titled “She Kept My Sapphire Ring, But Lost It’s Secrets Meanings”.

    In your poem you also wrote “I would disassemble Saturn and don it around your waist”

    …and in the same poem of mine, I wrote “my soul’s sapphire cocoon ruined, my true blue still-born, my staircase steps scattered / as tears across a galaxy’s expanse, and divided memories, traveled past rings of Saturn / to disappear in the mist of imagination’s Neptune face…”

    “But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drank, the very air I breathed, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o’clock in the morning.”, a quote by Haruki Murakami in The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle is one of my favorites.

    I was reminded of it by reading your words “cruely chained to the borders of a human eye, / the artistic vomit of a three headed musician / spiraling into delirium. You were a harp of bones. / You were the hum of stars at 3 am that poisons the water / with a wish for knots of flesh to connect our arms. / Lavender aphrodisiac squized into a black dress, / my cirquis freak, my gone, my coma.”

    …which reminded of me of how in my same poem I also wrote “She kept my sapphire birth ring despite her refusals of my meaning, losing it’s secrets: / Hidden, engraved inside below the silent center blue, “scales” holding up a seeming / silver lone timberwolf, one day to be found alone, frozen in snow, on the left sneaking / away from an overcrowded pack, and a platinum eagle, the freest bird on the right– / My metallurgy pets, my animal amalgams, my have and haven’t yet–potentialed Rys’”

    So as you can see, your poem brought back a lot of memories for me about my so called soul in my ring, an idea which sounds similar to the title of your poem.

    I was actually revisiting themes of ring today in my post in which I shared the interesting music video below, which I will finish my show of appreciation of your poem with, as it features symbolism of what one could consider an idol in one’s self, or one’s self in an idol…

    (Thanks for stopping by my blog the other day by the way, as well!)

    • Let me start of by saying that the video was very weird and haunting. I believe that to decipher it completely, on a personal basis, would require multiple states of mind.
      The synchronicity you show and describe between our motives and tastes I find rather warm and astounding. It is not that I think I resonate unique, but rather resonate lonely, and something like this rarely happens to me.
      I keep, in my writing, revisiting motives like the whole prism of blue, Saturn, oceans and Greek divinities. I recognise them in your writing, but weaved through such a more profound level, it feels like I am merely scratching the surface.
      While I did not bestow any material possesions to this lady Blue(I believe you will be among the few who will not be trciked by my poem titling), it feels like I did. Your story of your ring, reminded me of a song, a friend had shown me a few years back, which I would like to share with you, but for that, I need to know how well versed are you in Portuguese? 🙂

      • I know! What’s even weirder, is it’s the first video I found when I decided to look for a music video to pair with my post. I looked up “artists like alt-j” on google, clicked on the lastfm site in the top results, turned to the end of the listing of similar artists, picked out the band Black Atlass going on a simple gut feeling, looked them up on youtube, and immediately found the music video. It sounds weird, but I have such dumb luck on a regular basis, finding what I’m looking for, finding patterns easily. I don’t think there is any logic, rhyme or reason to it, it just happens with great frequency in my life. In my blog, it may seem like I know every song written ever almost, but the majority of what I pair with my posts, are my first exposures to the bands, after I have already written my own work. I guess I am not as unique in my own thoughts as I tend to think, as I find so many similarities between my ideas and those of others. It’s humbling to me, as my father is a literal genius, and knowning that’s herditatry can tempt me to get a big head about my own mind, so it’s nice for me to find other gifted created minds who think alike. Makes me not feel like I sound so crazy sometimes.

        For example, tonight I found what sounds like Elizabeth Barrett Browning talking about Lord Byron’s heart giving birth to Larkspurs at his bloody death like I’ve written similar things about, in this excerpt from her poem “Stanzas on the Death of Lord Byron”:

        “Hush’d the proud shouts that rode Aegaea’s wave!
        For lo! the great Deliv’rer breathes farewell!
        Gives to the world his mem’ry and a grave—
        Expiring in the land he only lived to save!

        Mourn, Hellas, mourn! and o’er thy widow’d brow,
        For aye, the cypress wreath of sorrow twine;
        And in thy new-form’d beauty, desolate, throw
        The fresh-cull’d flowers on his sepulchral shrine.
        Yes! let that heart whose fervour was all thine,
        In consecrated urn lamented be!
        That generous heart where genius thrill’d divine,
        Hath spent its last most glorious throb for thee—
        Then sank amid the storm that made thy children free!

        Britannia’s Poet! Graecia’s hero, sleeps!
        And Freedom, bending o’er the breathless clay,
        Lifts up her voice, and in her anguish weeps!
        For us, a night hath clouded o’er our day,
        And hush’d the lips that breath’d our fairest lay. ”

        As to my familiarity with Portuguese… Not very! I do love Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “Sonnets From the Portuguese” series, but “The Portuguese” was Robert Browning’s nickname for Elizabeth, not the language they were originally written in.

        She was a fan of the Portuguese poet Luís Vaz de Camões. I’ve only read a brief excerpt of his epic poem The Lusiades in English though.

        I am somewhat familiar with Elizabeth’s work, though I doubt that’s what you meant! I do enjoy music from other languages though, and researching/translating them, so chances are I could track down the lyrics and understand them!

      • Here is the song I was referng to:

        The lyrics are not the hard to understand,they kill with their simplicity and, if you watch the video as well, you will notice how Rui gets broken on his third chorus or forth, I forgot, and he is singing and crying at the same time.
        Yours, a sapphire ring, his, a ruby ring, but his message strongly resonates and stabs in the chest :
        “With you I learned a great lesson – not to love someone who does not hear the same music.”

      • I looked up the lyrics and watched the music video, and thought both were beautiful!

        I really liked these lyrics:

        “And it was only you, I want more
        next to me at the concert that day ,
        together in the hand of dark due to hear
        that crazy music always going up ,
        but you not you stay or half an hour,
        not made an effort to ‘ like and went away”

        I saw the woman I gave the ring to, a couple years ago at a heavy metal concert, after I had given the ring to her, but before she had returned it, during a time when we had taken vows of silence towards each other, which I still uphold. It was not her style of music, and she didn’t stay long, and I wondered why she came. She came with a friend I thought I recognized, who sat in the both next to me and some of my friends for awhile after she left, before she also left.

        And after she gave the ring back last February, this past November I came across her waiting under a willow tree near the shore where I had climbed down to go sit on a peninsula out on the river. Her husband was a ways away from her on the shore, and kept calling out to her, asking why she was sitting away from the group. She must have thought she recognized me in my bright red jacket. I climbed ashore, having no idea I would find her there.

        She looked at me nervously, recognizing me up close, and fumbled for a cigarette. I was shocked, said nothing, and went home.

        Our hometown was on her way hundreds of miles away to her new home. It’s weird how her and my paths have crossed in the ways they have.

        She is such an enigma. She moved on, and so did I, but I wonder at such strange things, as I had written about us waiting for each other under a willow tree in my “21 Shades Of Blue” poem.

        It’s such an odd world we live in, and the coincidences I stumble upon, like the similarities in our poems.

        Anyway, again, I really liked your poem, and the music video!

      • Hah, at least you stood there mute! Want to know what I did? I ran. Into a store. And bought things I didnt needed and now I avoid walking down that street on univercity hours. I laid back that Sunday, did not know it was a working one.
        I dont tell this to people ebcause I imagine they would ask me why? It is not something am holding back,this eprson is not even the person of this poem,this person is no longer even my person. It is because people tend not to understand that you can respect the past. Not forget it, not glorify it, but respect it, take of your hat and walk away before a magic you know happened 😀
        Sorry for the rambling, and I am glad you have your ring back 😀

      • LOL No problem, I tend to ramble mysteriously as well!

        The street the concert she and I went to was surrounded by shady streets somewhat near her university, and as I drove my friends that time, I accidentally took us down some even shadier streets. Oddly enough the last act of the night was the band Emery, a much softer, non-metal band, so perhaps she only came hoping to hear them.

        I felt nervous even being that close to her school, she and I had parted on such bad terms. I took away from the experience, thinking perhaps she found out I was going to be there, and perhaps knew how bad I felt about things, and wanted to at least let me know she wished things had ended differently. It was weird, but not negative for me. She tended to be a nervous wreck around me after she got to know me, so it’s been nice to at least feel like she didn’t really view me the way she used to talk about me.

        The way I view it, if her’s and my paths keep crossing in bizarre ways, maybe it’s the universe’s way of reminding us not to make the same mistakes with the people in our lives we value, or perhaps she and I are just like-minded in a small world. It makes me wonder how many times I have crossed paths with the same strangers I’ve never met, and not known it. I would probably be surprised if I knew!

  4. This is brilliant. The opening four lines just grab you in and you can’t stop diving in. If I leave aside the last stanza, it felt like my own story. That’s your vivid imagery that speaks to the soul. The entire poem is stunning. Wow!

    • I love that you do not find yourself in the last stanza, it is comforting to know there is people out there who move on, it is an inspiration 🙂

  5. Pomenula si Robin u pesmi, mozda u nekoj narednoj bude mesta i za nas ostale 😉 Fantasticna je, bas mi se neke metafore lepo otvorise, taman kad asam misio da nikada necu da shvatim, i nisam, ili jesam na neki moj nacin… sto bi Gost rekao “poezija u prozi”, a ovde moze d abude i obrnuto, tanka linija… moram da se vratim jos neki put da procitam ima ovde momenata… 🙂

  6. Yes, these are the problems with idols; regardless of availability or not …

    • Precisley. it makes me wonder and try to pinpoint the moment where did I first even learn of them? it does not feel like a natural process, idolatry.

      • I think, idolatry means trespassing. And trespassing means to forfeit something. Something of value, which took time to acquire.

        Thus, everything possibly comes down to seduction. Seduction and ones personal strength.

        Wishing you a happy New Year and everything good and rewarding in 2015,

  7. Wow! Girl you have it, genius pure genius!

  8. Excellent.

  9. So much good said here.. This is epic – an unwilling ode for an idol that swing between what’s dark and bright.. So many excellent images built up like Chiaroscuro in words.. Like the artistic vomit of a three-headed musician. Inspiring to read..

    • I remember seeing a task somewhere once, to write using Chiaroscuro as guidelines, using various paintings as an inspiration, and I remember deeming myself too unclear to attempt such a thing. I am very thankfull for your comment and impression, they make me feel like I am improving 🙂

  10. “We traded gallons of warm darkness, we exchanged wombs.”

    My best line.

    • One of my favourites while writing as well. I asked myself:”IF a person asked you to describe why this person,this archetype is so much different than any other you crossed breath with?” – this line was my answer 🙂

  11. Impressive reading! … Sending you all my best wishes!. Aquileana 😀

  12. May be, it is better this way: Not letting go and dragging the weight as a reminder of all that exists and withers, all that was and all that which is no longer the same. A spirit wanes, a desire declines, a life recedes.
    Powerful verse, Oloriel. I am always amazed by the images you conjure with your words, by the feelings you evoke with your understanding.

    It is most probable that I saw something entirely different from what you saw and intended to portray while writing. I place myself in the words. So, pardon me, because I am restrained by the narrow lane of experience in life.

    Some of my favourite phrases/verse lines: “the soft requiem of their regret”, “…the cold bosom of geography”, “artistic vomit of a three headed musician”, “traded gallons of warm darkness, we exchanged wombs”, “no longer the savage blood of my heart”.

    • Thank you very much, HA! You know I love it when a poem of mine beckons a different interpretation and outburst of emotions in each reader. The only thing that I am left to be curious about is what would be your, or someone elses, confession to a deseased idol within them ? 🙂

  13. Ahh, your intriguing poetry – how much have I MISSED it. Happy New Year, Oloriel. Hope it is filled with love, laughter and inspiration. xx

    • Thank you very much, Noora!
      I wish you a Happy New Year, and may it be prosperous for you in every way! I know I havent been around much, so I dont know if I just missed your writing, but in case you have been away too, I wish you read you more regularly in 2015 😀

  14. I really like this one, O. I hear a stoic and somber voice in this one that I don’t hear in many others; naturally, that resonates with me.. :0) Powerful and moving!

  15. All I can really muster to say here Oloriel…
    It has been too long since I immersed myself in the beauty of the words and ethos you gift the world with. YOU my dear – are a stunning human being. May 2015 be filled with all that it should.

  16. Damn, this is wonderful. This is how to write a love poem that outlasts fashion.

  17. Histories are interesting places to ponder at times. Without it where would our story be now. Perhaps maybe a dozen people changed my history, they are who and what I remember most, more than the history itself, more than the decay within me from those days in between trying to figure it out – choices, change, and the traveled moments..

  18. Let me thinking, of lost ones, dried up and cold, how sometimes we can never let go, but we move on…closing!
    Have changed over time, its less forcing, more fluent…You said it yourself…

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