She is.
Her foot stops just off the footpath, as she feels her soul expanding, beyond her arms and chest and face and ears, beyond the face of her childhood, and the hands of her future frailty. It grows out of and around her, taking in the road, the cars, a boy throwing his toy cars over the fence, a dog parking at a falling leaf, a couple arguing just out of sight of the neighbours, a rosebush covered in aphids, a stubborn drop of dew hidden from the mid-morning sun.
She can taste everything that this earth once was, she can feel all it will become.
She see the scars and the beauty, hears the fire, the pain, the peace.
In this stasis, this smallest unit of time, she builds a home, she build eternity.
28/12/2015
Monday, 31 October 2016
Friday, 19 August 2016
Tuesday, 16 August 2016
Lunacy
Earth's pale child:
Faded in her weathered blue shell;
Radiant in her dark cloak.
Would her sand be so different beneath my feet,
her shores any less than our home?
Her sheen any less wondrous for being not her own?
Would my body be rendered any less by her cold
Than my spirit is suffocated on this plane?
Would I be any more alone on her vacant moors?
Could I scream from her airless hills and be any less heard?
I fold this page to make a ladder
And I curl in her luminous soil.
I call the stones from the void to strike this place,
No longer defended in that weathered blue shell.
I will be buried in this crater
With the dreams and hopes of distant generations.
My paper ladder a warning and a guide into this luminous embrace,
Dressed in darkness.
(16/8/16)
Faded in her weathered blue shell;
Radiant in her dark cloak.
Would her sand be so different beneath my feet,
her shores any less than our home?
Her sheen any less wondrous for being not her own?
Would my body be rendered any less by her cold
Than my spirit is suffocated on this plane?
Would I be any more alone on her vacant moors?
Could I scream from her airless hills and be any less heard?
I fold this page to make a ladder
And I curl in her luminous soil.
I call the stones from the void to strike this place,
No longer defended in that weathered blue shell.
I will be buried in this crater
With the dreams and hopes of distant generations.
My paper ladder a warning and a guide into this luminous embrace,
Dressed in darkness.
(16/8/16)
Monday, 22 February 2016
Memories of our life together
The jacarandas were out early.
In fact, all the flowers seemed to be out early, and had lasted longer than usual, some even attempting a second flowering, though the summer heat had quickly put an end to that. I was sitting at the bus stop; the bus was twenty minutes late and, consequently (was it?), so were you.
I bit my lip again, this time drawing blood. My fingers tapped against my wallet and I checked the board again.
But my flight was still delayed. I half-stood, preparing to abuse the vapid woman at the service desk, but thought better of it. The snow had stopped, and the wind had died down, but they still wouldn’t allow any flights out for another hour. I looked up, vainly, at the board again and imagined you, not the you of then, even, but the you of fifteen hours hence, tired of waiting, leaving, angry at me for ruining your night, this tiny but some how immeasurably large part of your life.
I reach out and hold your hand as we wait for the doctor, and pray by myself. Your eyes are red and puffy, but no more tears. somehow, I’m surprised you picked me to be here with you; why did you come to me, why pick me?
I’m almost ashamed of my pride, but you slip the ring on my finger and kiss me and I can’t imagine that I’m here, I’m the one next to you. You take my hand and walk me down the aisle amid cheers and cameras’ flashing.
We walk out the doors and into our backyard; how strange that marriage seems to start the insulation back to family. And I almost feel guilty that both of my parents are here, when one of yours is dead and the other still won’t talk to you.
This time you grab my hand as the pastor mumbles meaningless words about faith and hope and dirt which have nothing to do with the fact that my mother is dead.
And then I grab yours, this time standing at the back of the funeral and I wonder how many people know you were his child, or that you’re still alive. I hold you as you sob, and slowly lead you to the car and open your door.
We make love in the car on the side of the road to Melbourne and I feel I’ve never been happier. The rain and headlights lash the car and I look across at you, sleeping.
I start the car again and tell the kids to be quiet. We drive them to school and drop them off, then stop at that cafe we haven’t been to in years. I put down my coffee and kiss you gently on the mouth and you laugh when I tell you that I thought you’d never call me back… was that twenty years ago?
Then the party’s over and it’s just the four of us on the couch and I hold you all tight.
And then you’re holding me as the doctor walks away and, even though I should be thinking about options, all I can think about is who we should and shouldn’t tell and wondering who already knows, because as long as I think about that I don’t have to wonder if we’ll have to bury our son.
I give him one last hug before he takes his place at the altar and looks in nervous expectation for the first glimpse of his bride.
She walks through the door and ushers her children out to their aunt and granddads. I pick up one and bounce him on my knee and his laugh is so much like yours that I stop and I notice the jacarandas are out early this year.
You wrap your arms around me and I still can’t imagine why you chose me. Is it really me, lying next to you? And we stay awake late into the night and tell each other stories about all the things we’ve done and all the things we’ll do.
Even though you’ll die the next day, in my arms. And, even though I’ll die alone, except for the beeps and clicks of medical support that has nothing to do with life, I’ll remember waiting at that bus stop, biting my lip and knowing how much I need you.
In fact, all the flowers seemed to be out early, and had lasted longer than usual, some even attempting a second flowering, though the summer heat had quickly put an end to that. I was sitting at the bus stop; the bus was twenty minutes late and, consequently (was it?), so were you.
I bit my lip again, this time drawing blood. My fingers tapped against my wallet and I checked the board again.
But my flight was still delayed. I half-stood, preparing to abuse the vapid woman at the service desk, but thought better of it. The snow had stopped, and the wind had died down, but they still wouldn’t allow any flights out for another hour. I looked up, vainly, at the board again and imagined you, not the you of then, even, but the you of fifteen hours hence, tired of waiting, leaving, angry at me for ruining your night, this tiny but some how immeasurably large part of your life.
I reach out and hold your hand as we wait for the doctor, and pray by myself. Your eyes are red and puffy, but no more tears. somehow, I’m surprised you picked me to be here with you; why did you come to me, why pick me?
I’m almost ashamed of my pride, but you slip the ring on my finger and kiss me and I can’t imagine that I’m here, I’m the one next to you. You take my hand and walk me down the aisle amid cheers and cameras’ flashing.
We walk out the doors and into our backyard; how strange that marriage seems to start the insulation back to family. And I almost feel guilty that both of my parents are here, when one of yours is dead and the other still won’t talk to you.
This time you grab my hand as the pastor mumbles meaningless words about faith and hope and dirt which have nothing to do with the fact that my mother is dead.
And then I grab yours, this time standing at the back of the funeral and I wonder how many people know you were his child, or that you’re still alive. I hold you as you sob, and slowly lead you to the car and open your door.
We make love in the car on the side of the road to Melbourne and I feel I’ve never been happier. The rain and headlights lash the car and I look across at you, sleeping.
I start the car again and tell the kids to be quiet. We drive them to school and drop them off, then stop at that cafe we haven’t been to in years. I put down my coffee and kiss you gently on the mouth and you laugh when I tell you that I thought you’d never call me back… was that twenty years ago?
Then the party’s over and it’s just the four of us on the couch and I hold you all tight.
And then you’re holding me as the doctor walks away and, even though I should be thinking about options, all I can think about is who we should and shouldn’t tell and wondering who already knows, because as long as I think about that I don’t have to wonder if we’ll have to bury our son.
I give him one last hug before he takes his place at the altar and looks in nervous expectation for the first glimpse of his bride.
She walks through the door and ushers her children out to their aunt and granddads. I pick up one and bounce him on my knee and his laugh is so much like yours that I stop and I notice the jacarandas are out early this year.
You wrap your arms around me and I still can’t imagine why you chose me. Is it really me, lying next to you? And we stay awake late into the night and tell each other stories about all the things we’ve done and all the things we’ll do.
Even though you’ll die the next day, in my arms. And, even though I’ll die alone, except for the beeps and clicks of medical support that has nothing to do with life, I’ll remember waiting at that bus stop, biting my lip and knowing how much I need you.
originally posted on jameshultgren.tumblr.com
Sunday, 14 February 2016
What can be real after this?
What can be real after this?
It is the journey, long and transcendent
Life, the weary, reluctant return.
We return with so much more
But arrive, somehow, with less.
This closeness will never be far
But this distance leaves me bereft.
Would that I were never without you
But that life would also leave us alone.
I am already alone with these feelings;
Why not make this solitude absolute?
But I will not allow these fires to consume me
For beyond the fire is not rebirth
Just soot
Just despair.
We are not a forest
Nor a tree
We are not the desert plains
Not the battleground
We are simply arms and a face
A mind that thinks, a heart that beats.
And yet I feel apart of me
And I feel a part of me that reaches
Beyond these arms and this face
Beyond this mind and this heart.
I feel it as a force
I feel it as I wish I felt you now.
And it tells me that there is a closeness beyond that arms can express
An intimacy lips can barely tell.
What can be real after this?
1/2/2016
It is the journey, long and transcendent
Life, the weary, reluctant return.
We return with so much more
But arrive, somehow, with less.
This closeness will never be far
But this distance leaves me bereft.
Would that I were never without you
But that life would also leave us alone.
I am already alone with these feelings;
Why not make this solitude absolute?
But I will not allow these fires to consume me
For beyond the fire is not rebirth
Just soot
Just despair.
We are not a forest
Nor a tree
We are not the desert plains
Not the battleground
We are simply arms and a face
A mind that thinks, a heart that beats.
And yet I feel apart of me
And I feel a part of me that reaches
Beyond these arms and this face
Beyond this mind and this heart.
I feel it as a force
I feel it as I wish I felt you now.
And it tells me that there is a closeness beyond that arms can express
An intimacy lips can barely tell.
What can be real after this?
1/2/2016
Wednesday, 10 February 2016
Wednesday, 3 February 2016
What Can Be Real After This?
What can be real after this?
It is the journey, long and transcendent
Life, the weary, reluctant return.
We return with so much more
But arrive, somehow, with less.
This closeness will never be far
But this distance leaves me bereft.
Would that I were never without you
But that life would also leave us alone.
I am already alone with these feelings;
Why not make this solitude absolute?
But I will not allow these fires to consume me
For beyond the fire is not rebirth
Just soot
Just despair.
We are not a forest
Nor a tree
We are not the desert plains
Not the battleground
We are simply arms and a face
A mind that thinks, a heart that beats.
And yet I feel apart of me
And I feel a part of me that reaches
Beyond these arms and this face
Beyond this mind and this heart.
I feel it as a force
I feel it as I wish I felt you now.
And it tells me that there is a closeness beyond that arms can express
An intimacy lips can barely tell.
What can be real after this?
1/2/2016
Saturday, 2 January 2016
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