Needle
Would it be power or the soft faith
of idolatry that brought you empty-handed
upon this Earth?
Because your history is poison to my heavier
heaven, I should be running parallel to your great
evolution, but I am not.
Your moods are total, obsessive as fungi -
growing shallow until everything is blinded
under your curtain. I used to love you - the facts
in your brain, your anti-cultural immaturity, your freedom
from the process. You, only tied to the result. I used to stay
up all night, half-a-human, fumbling through books for a deeper
education. I used to be becoming, not this hard
calcified thing dependent on your reflection - a slave
to your dragon, to your brutal needs.
You used my brokenness to mould yourself a follower.
I followed you, but now that
is over.
Little
In the little things
that fatten a day with petulant
injustices. In the basic things
like the lies in a newspaper or the
nonchalant acceptance of privilege,
history sinks and degenerates – a little
something, a base something growing to encumber
the oval whole without constraint. Patronizing as presents,
given gifts from the world-travelled to the poor who are stuck with
store-bought cans and hardships that leave no space for frivolity or
such easeful distractions.
A little now to the right, and symphonies that neglect the dark muse
of its creator. Van Gough on placemats, and there now, there now,
smile for the camera and make yourself as someone
special, worthy of your elitist smirk – a masterpiece of fiction –
one side, one belief, a derelict of denial to the little things
that demand so much courage to just muddle through.
Last Beat
It is a prolonged death,
a rotted tooth that hasn’t been pulled.
Evenings of blasphemy, steeling bitterness back
to inhabit my upper gut.
I fumbled, then ripped the barriers – better off
hard and sure of the fire I was stoking.
Then softness crept in, like a pregnant mother
falling prey to a sentimental moment. Love
I called it. But it was a city of angst I unleashed,
twisted veins and cramped-up toes. Let it die
and be done with. I will not be owned by obligation
or highways and highways of mundane houses and the people
that live in them – insensitive to devotion, to savage need
and to pilgrimage. Joy
is where I am free. Beside the crystals forming,
savouring the voice that always guides me. And it
guides me to tear off my clothes, relax my arms and to
yes, yes, please
let go.
Crowned
The large June light
is woven with the clouds
like a wind to steal away all breathing.
And on the moving earth, lawnmowers
roar and little snails crawl across
the wet pavement.
There are no more dreams, only this
woodchip swallowed and the bright water
cared for.
The fog has shown me my substance.
I eat my plums whole and wish
for my child everything tender and alive.
I feel the breeze through the window, taking
the curves, turning me over like a patch
of rotted grass. I am now beginning to be collected,
to answer to this new name and see my past
through a fearless eye. I feel the kick
of a new vision formed and feel the gentlest mercy
roll down my chest like a kitten.
This is lunch, an autumn leaf waxed and the laundry dried.
Give me birth. My body skips across the edge,
and all good things are finally waking.
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 690 poems published in over 325 international journals. She has eleven published books of poetry, seven collections, seven chapbooks, and a chapbook pending publication. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com
