Uoy evol tnod I


*Image found HERE

Uoy evol tnod I

Like Syrinx, barefoot at the river’s edge,
a plural of nouns,
knees muddy, hands worthless.
Choices were made,
and prayers were prayed
and prying servants and maids
and among them worshiped gods
of smoke and linen,
dead trees, an empty chair,
or worse
a temple or a church
with no priest to lie to you.

I ask my heart to be still,
like a pin cushion,
let the lady have her auburn dress;
let the bitch have her blood moon.
Be still, while the magician saws through.
I am mute with puddles,
I am dirt, I am dog, I am dime,
dinner, dilution, dissipation. Done.
A witch set ablaze,
I have scrapped the closets
for garments,
closed tightly the scents like potions,
keepng them safe from wind.
I cried in an empty room.
I cried at a crowded concert.
I cried in the cab, cried in the bathroom,
the kitchen, the busy street, the dead end,
I salvaged the drawers for trinkets,
I made choices that you orphaned.

I take my sorrow to the butcher
like I accept I am meat for cutting;
I let him chop of my head,
hack off my arms, split my ribs
and I shall plant them in the ground
and weep for growing
countless more of worthless me’s;
I will let him hack and slash,
play with it, snip, snap, pull –
like betrayal, like brutality,
like ten more me,
sliced to steak, like
my thighs, returning to the lord,
like my face, held by strong hands,
like my eyes, like snuffed candles,
like gut feeling versus the choices
between fat fingers in the early morning shift
lining the black beard of someone who doesn’t care;
just dices.
I will listen as you speak of me as past tense;
I will let the butcher make a knife shelf in my chest.

And soon, the silence will wrap us like lasso.
The trees will quiet down, the birds will fall asleep.
And the groceries will need doing, and splitting,
and fitting the shelves and there will be aftermaths in need of fixing
with kisses on the neck.
The priest will come to his church and he will clasp his hands,
and incense will burn in the temple and pictures will corrode
and your soul will slut its way inside some dark abode
and I will ask What shall become of me?
What of the dreams, the bed sheets, the bedroom, the bed,
the loneliness? What of the waiting?What of the choices

of where to go, where to be, where to lay the head, where to cry next
and where to weave the sparrows? Which colour, which parcel,
which flower? Which name, which surname, nickname, sweet thing,
which honey, which plum, what kind of sugar, whose teaspoons? What for breakfast, what for lunch, and choices like the spiral, the farfale or the sea-shell macaroni?

How do I call you
come the morning?

~ by Oloriel on April 10, 2017.

19 Responses to “Uoy evol tnod I”

  1. How clever, your title!


    “I ask my heart to be still,
    like a pin cushion,
    let the lady have her auburn dress”

    “I am mute with puddles”

    “I made choices that you orphaned.”

    “The trees will quiet down, the birds will fall asleep.
    And the groceries will need doing, and splitting”

    “and your soul will slut its way inside some dark abode
    and I will ask What shall become of me?”

    But this magnificence is definitely my favorite:
    “which flower? Which name, which surname, nickname, sweet thing,
    which honey, which plum, what kind of sugar, whose teaspoons?”

    The part about the priest missing, coming and going, and what to do when you’re sitting there waiting … to make confession, to receive a message — well, I’m just pondering it, and I think maybe we need that time without the priest or minister to reflect, as if we’re our own priest, kind of, but also to prepare our hearts so that we’re not just pouring out words. I’m not Catholic, but I would think it would be very easy to confess with your mouth but not with your heart, if you know what I mean. I think the heart has to be prepared, alone, before it can open enough to truly confess and then repent. But that’s just my spin. And the speaker here sounds very bitter and very pained, so I think it would make sense that she is most in need of that forgiving/loving/leading touch … she is just maybe tired of waiting. But sometimes God is meant to be found more on the inside of us than on the outside, via another human. (I’m probably making no sense!)

    I say things to my friend De all the time about feeling like there’s no place for me in church, but she’s quick to tell me how things are at her church … that there’s no requirement, no rightness that matters … just being there, I think. She makes me feel like I don’t have to be, do, or say anything in particular to have a very special seat in, what I perceive to be, a metaphysical church.

    Anyway, you really got me thinking … obviously. 🙂

    • Thank you very much for sharing your inner thoughts with me, I really crave and respect that. I totally get what you are saying and share the opinion. The part with the priests in the poem is a true story. Nothing like crying in a church, pouring your soul out and the priest just passing by and nodding at you. After all, he has a donation plate to empty in his own pocket. There is just this huge, enormous contrast between faith, of our hearts and souls, and the clergy. Or, like I can’t remember who said it or how the quote exactly goes:”I have nothing against you, God, it is your workers I can’t stand.” or my more favourable one :”Humanity will not reach perfection until the last stone from the last church falls to the head of the last priest.”.
      Indeed, like your friend wisely speaks, we are our own temples, priests, priestesses, and very often gods. This is one of the main reasons behind me being a Pagan, and not a Christian anymore (but I am still entitled to visit a church and have an ear there for my troubles, after all, it was not my choice to have my head dunked under the water, the choice was made for me.).
      It is complicated also, who and what do we seek when our soul is bleeding.
      And last, but not the least, thank you very much for reading my poem, and I hope you never hear the words “I don’t love you” from someone you do.

  2. Wow. That is powerful. Piercing.

  3. somehow it’s the reverse of the title, yes?

  4. The third verse is so powerful. I felt it.

  5. A veritable masterpiece, a truly brilliant write.
    Had to figure out the title too.
    Anna :o]

  6. Love this, and how you hint at evol-ution.

  7. Intense.
    Intense with purpose.
    Intense with love.
    Thank you, Oloriel!
    Resa xo

  8. Reblogged this on Secret First Draft: Member of the Sudden Denouement Literary Collective and commented:
    Oloriel/ . . Color me in Cyanide and Cherry . . .

  9. Stunning!

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