"disquieting" poems
~
*She stands on the roof of the world, a ship in a bottle. She likes to wave at passing boats, inviting 120 volts to raise their sails.
Words unbosomed -- her attempt of blotting out the sun and those bloodletting habits.
Her eyelids say, "Only the disquieting muses have time for me." So she writes like an umbrella, shading reality; remembering pluck and luck stories about bumblebees, lovingly wrapped in Tiffany-blue ribbon and paper.
Father used to solve her every contemplation. Now indecisiveness in what she asks. Now indecisiveness in arbitrary tasks.
And she and her negative capability are the last two awake at a slumber party, giving commonplace words the allure of secrecy.
You see, she is only harmless when she sleeps.*
~
Dec 9, 2023
Dec 9, 2023 at 7:49 PM UTC
across the Liverpool plains
the gas exploration
goes on without
being contained
drilling is never ending
holes sunk
which invariable
cause in the farming community
a disquieting funk
Santos
cares little
for the environment's
well being
its pipeline
must garner
all the gas
in the stream
landholders and those in the green party
have banded together
to protect the agricultural lands
from the rabid abuse
which the company
will wrought on
the water table
flora
and
fauna
they cry ****
as the company
exploits
the countryside
making of it
a harlot to be pillaged
and misused
the state government
is at sixes and sevens
so many competing
interests
must be listened to
should it give
Santos
permits
to
**** and plunder
or
will
it
allow
the
broad acres
to
continue
without sunder
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
spirit stone
the emotion caught
in your embrace
where my body
melts into yours
the perfect blend
of masculine
and feminine
bathing in a river
of marble
the waves are
disquieting
the ring is lost
spirit stone
don’t deceive me
with other women
don’t trick me with
the old man
at your feet
I do not give up
I slave away
I work morning
and night
spirit stone
everything has been
cut
hay, wheat, stone
the interlude in
the fields
the moment when
the ring is found
dawn and thought
watch me
dawn and thought
wear on my
countenance
spirit stone
the moving echo
of my own past
the waltz to come
the hidden
atelier
the moment when
the king falls in love
with his wife
with his child
spirit stone
I am muse
I am artist
I am caught like
a fly
an agnostic
queen who found
the ring
to fall in the arms
of man
spirit stone
if you keep your
promise
we will grow
with the sky
if you keep your
promise
we will be in
paradise
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 12:46 PM UTC
Mother, mother, what ill-bred aunt
Or what disfigured and unsightly
Cousin did you so unwisely keep
Unasked to my christening, that she
Sent these ladies in her stead
With heads like darning-eggs to nod
And nod and nod at foot and head
And at the left side of my crib?
Mother, who made to order stories
Of Mixie Blackshort the heroic bear,
Mother, whose witches always, always
Got baked into gingerbread, I wonder
Whether you saw them, whether you said
Words to rid me of those three ladies
Nodding by night around my bed,
Mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head.
In the hurricane, when father's twelve
Study windows bellied in
Like bubbles about to break, you fed
My brother and me cookies and Ovaltine
And helped the two of us to choir:
'Thor is angry; boom boom boom!
Thor is angry: we don't care!'
But those ladies broke the panes.
When on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced,
Blinking flashlights like fireflies
And singing the glowworm song, I could
Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress
But, heavy-footed, stood aside
In the shadow cast by my dismal-headed
Godmothers, and you cried and cried:
And the shadow stretched, the lights went out.
Mother, you sent me to piano lessons
And praised my arabesques and trills
Although each teacher found my touch
Oddly wooden in spite of scales
And the hours of practicing, my ear
Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable.
I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere,
From muses unhired by you, dear mother.
I woke one day to see you, mother,
Floating above me in bluest air
On a green balloon bright with a million
Flowers and bluebirds that never were
Never, never, found anywhere.
But the little planet bobbed away
Like a soap-bubble as you called: Come here!
And I faced my traveling companions.
Day now, night now, at head, side, feet,
They stand their vigil in gowns of stone,
Faces blank as the day I was born.
Their shadows long in the setting sun
That never brightens or goes down.
And this is the kingdom you bore me to,
Mother, mother. But no frown of mine
Will betray the company I keep.
3.9k
at the end of the pier
no one is fishing
a couple from Jersey
leans out over the
rail looking down into
the brown swill
rolling under the
weathered boards
The wife remarked
“Belmar's water
is much nicer.”
on the Gulf’s edge
unhappy gulls convene,
plaintively gazing
over gray waves
ebbing at their feet
Brown Pelican crews
fly in long
ordered formations
incessantly circling
in widening rounds
seemingly reluctant to
plunge into the
endless depletion
of this aquatic
dead zone
I speak with a
Jefferson Parish employee
working a shovel
to regrade disturbed sand
boasting a consistency
of moist drying cement
“How did the Gulf oil spill
affect this place?” I ask
“It took evarding.” she said
With a slight Cajun accent,
“dig down a foot or two in da sand
you hit earl. It nevar goes away. Nevar.
“I live down bay side
near forty years.
Had’nt been in de water fer
twenty five. The ******
******** took evarding.
They should go back
to Englund”
She went back to
tilling the sand.
Deepwater Horizon
yet festers a short
forty miles out to sea
is now covered by
an advancing storm
swelling in the Gulf
standing at the end
of the long pier
my hands grasp the
sun bleached lumber
straining my eyes
peering into a
dark avalanche
the serenade
of bird songs
have been replaced
by the motorized drone
of tenders servicing
offshore rigs
sounding
a constant refrain
filling my ears
with a disquieting
seaside symphony
the taste of
light sweet crude
dances on my tongue
the pungent sting
of disbursements
climbs into nostrils
rends my face
prickles my eyes
grandeur is a
conditional state
never permanent
forever temporary
Music Selection:
Cajun Music:
Hippy To-Yo
Grand Isle
2/20/17
jbm
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
An overgrown pathway she takes,
A smile plastered on her face, so fake.
Deeper down does detail disquieting doubt.
As she stumbles and searches for a sign of the way out.
Entwined in thorns she now becomes,
As the overgrown pathway, the night succumbs.
Hovering hornets the only sound,
Pretending to enjoy the escapade, how profound.
A shattering noise halts her stride,
But the tranquil look stays in place, what pride.
How foolish a girl to continue on,
How foolish a girl to act as though nothing is wrong.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
I grew up in a Muslim country
Where the culture is different;
Dress codes, cuisines, sceneries, and peaceful people,
Different from your local news' bombing news content.
I met different people at my old school, all of which are my friends;
Of different ethnicities, culture, and religion.
Despite our major differences, we treated each other as one;
We built a bond that is not made for oblivion.
I am lucky to grow up experiencing having a Muslim and a Christian for a friend,
I get invited to holidays like Christmas and Ramadan.
I get to see and feel the best of both worlds,
And respect for each religion is the key to living as one.
I wrote this to serve as an eye-opener
That the terrorists that you see on the news are not my Muslim brothers;
For when terror is claimed in Islam's name,
They disrespect the Islamic belief and teachings when they make that claim.
We need to live in a world where people thinks critically—
A world with no woman with a hijab is stared at disrespectfully;
A world where nobody uses Islam as a sign of terror;
A world with no discriminations, just peace and tranquility.
I hope we also learn cultural sensitivity,
For religion differences aren't something to joke about and be tagged with petty comedy.
Respect is what we need to have a peaceful community,
And if we really want to live in a world free from disquieting thoughts and emotions,
Let this all start with you and me.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 4:01 PM UTC
Just as how a little stick-man could not perceive the pencil that drew him
I could have never seen God and didn't see him when he had molded me
from His depths of clay, profound as a rock- that is to say still, solid,
silent, cold, old, disquieting... All fancy words for 'not much.'
Here's the point: there isn't any, but
just as how this little stick-man cannot perceive this pencil that draws him
closer and closer to the last panel of his, this, comic or graphic novel:
beings of smaller dimensions know nothing
of those so much higher, smarter, and more poetic than themselves.
Does this have to do with why you disappeared onto an airplane
like a bird searching for her freedom...?
Am I, in this mess of metaphors, your little stick-man who couldn't
get out of his paper sheet and fly with you...?
Of course, in existing on a dried white flap, I could not, cannot, fold
my own two dimensions of existence into even one crumpled paper plane;
so I could not, cannot, follow you through your freeing air
and ask you, or beg you, to answer my silly questions...
Because I have both length and width, but no depth;
no depths of clay.
Though I figure the answers to these questions are the same.
The truth is that, in this mess of metaphors,
neither of us got to pick what we didn't want to be, bird or stick-man.
In reality we had only one choice: to hold hands when we could.
So we did.
And when we did- everything became dimensionless;
and Everything made sense because Nothing did.
Because the value of the distance between our hands
meant that Nothing was our Everything.
And from that dense Nothing our Universe was born-
Bang. Thus tiny strings of new Everything rippled throughout old Nothing...
making Everything matter, almost literally.
We then made our stars, our galaxies, our planets; our classrooms,
lockers, and lovers: each other. All of this brilliant Creation until
we only had one last choice: to hold hands when we could...
...so we did...
... again and again,
in the distant dreams of a troubled theorist
who chains together pages and birds of poetry,
looking to find you, again and again,
in the mess of metaphors
of our Universe,
and I did.
Almost.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
loneliness is disquieting
it is an isolated battle
between you and the world
yet all you see
is a crowd
full of uninterested people
unaware of your war
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 11:29 PM UTC
no matter how much i sleep, rest, or nap i'm exhausted
i've taken to yawning in my favorite class.
no matter how easy i take it, my body still aches when i move
it's frankly rather disquieting.
no matter how much i clear out of my head, i'm still hurting
letting go of difficult situations is hard.
no matter how ahead i get, i'm still stressed for the next thing
the rapidity of life is eating away at me.
no matter how kind i am to those around me, i still know shame
impulsivity of emotion is a thinker's nightmare.
no matter how much faith i have, i still feel uncertain
my god is for me, but it feels like life is against me.
no matter how mature i am, i am still undercut by those older than me
focusing on the positive is not going to be theraputic right now.
no matter how much control i have, i'm still shackled to my anxiety
i cannot just "calm down" to ease your or my own conscience.
no matter how many decisions i make, there is still much left undone
slowing down is a luxury, one i take guiltily and not without consequence.
no matter how much i improve, i'm still bound to expectation of perfection
humanity is not perfect, and neither am i, broken and inadequate, but we try, oh we try.
no matter how much joy is in my life, i still feel the crushing weight of depression.
i said i was doing better
no matter how much i am validated by my loved ones, i still hurt myself
my eating disorder has infected my system completely, down to my bones.
no matter how many breaks i take i'm still being driven into the ground
crying because of household tasks is pathetic.
no matter how much i try to pretend life is not stressful, it's
digging itself into my heart and soul.
i am not okay, and those who know it are trying to keep themselves afloat
i can't escape this tired, this exhausted, no matter how hard i try.
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 6:55 PM UTC
I hunger for your mouth, your voice, your skin,
And through the streets I slide without nutrition,
Silent, without a bite of bread, dawn disquieting me within,
I search the liquid sound of your feet at day’s fruition.
I’m hungry for your voice’s slippery laughter,
For your sunburned hands’ colored clasp,
I hunger for the pale shade of your stony nails, and after
Want to eat your skin as a ripe, sunburned almond’s rasp.
I want to engorge the sunburned rays of your beauty,
Your sovereign nose, up to your arrogant face,
I want to eat the slumberous slip of your lashes…
And hungrily I go to and fro, sniffing the shadows,
In search of you, to make your hot heart race.
I’m a cougar in the quiet of Quitratúe.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
The same Cricket has been outside my window for 5 endless nights.
I stay awake and think about all of the dark ones I stayed up until 4am trying to find some sort of light.
I never found the light.
If I recall, you were the one who searched for it.
And now this has got my ever disquieting mind reeling-
Did you find me light?
Or was it false hope?A flashlight with dead batteries?
That's how I feel now-
Like a car with no engine,
Empty under the hood.
I don't know why I trusted anyone anyhow.
My heart feels like lead,
A deadweight in my chest,
Broken from the drop off the cliff.
Of course you advised it to jump.
This same cricket has been here making the same ******* noise -
almost like how my mind tells me consistently how naive I was to trust.
It hasn't shut up in 6 hellish nights.I can't stand these ******* fights.
But you told me I must believe in the lies.
Not in so many words-
I was supposed to trust the "truth"
I guess it was a part of my demise.
Leave me to think I had the light,
But when I went to use the power it is mysteriously out of service
Right?
You obviously don't realize how far you push me down into the water.
How close I've been to drowning over-
Over and over again,
only to barely claw my way back to shore.
The cricket is still outside and I have tried to smother his sound with the conflation of sad songs,
But that's just not fair.
He sings of his sorrows just as well as I.
The cricket is outside my window and I let him stay now
For we both know this feeling
Update: I killed the cricket- he knew too much.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
Did you ever see me cry?
Hiding in my own corner--
It was a dismal place as dark as
Night and as pressing as the
Silent presence of death.
Did you ever watch me cry?
Every tear a diamond,
And upheaval of sobs,
Disquieting the stillness,
And disappearing into shadows.
Have you ever noticed
The drowning of my eyes,
Pools of pain and unpleasant misery,
Poaching my soul,
While undetected by others?
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
Standing as a posthumous syllogism on the main platform of the terminal, is the statue,
Of what is perceived to be man. Nondescript in attitude and feature, balanced
By the raw fact that a craftsman was disposed to cast it in bronze.
The likeness of the general populace, defined through blank eyes, in the perfect reflection
Of the truth. It seems that the epitome of accepted natural progression, that there
Should be no inscription, no engraved statement of popularity or definition on its base.
The dank smell and dust on the edifice on which it resides, continues to be a grim reminder
of the expected and the commonplace. The reminder of what was and is, is left unnoticed,
Forgotten by the familiar repetitive sight.
The dying terminal (a redundant epithet) has grown dark through the cast of despair
And false hope showering its massive windows from above. Light source has been cut off,
Leaving only a path of beaten resolve, to direct the feet of the misguided.
Not unlike the path, closest to the fence, struck hard by the hooves of the cattle, prompted forward
by the hand out of food in the first cold days of winter. The stream grows on a daily basis, more and more
The masses trip and stumble aboard the trains, to find their lurching, rocking way to self destruction.
Nobility could have been found in even handed choice. Those who chose the line, the prolonged rail of
Indifference and non-comprehension. Rails of iron, rusted like the rotted cheap pines on the waters edge.
It is the longest journey, containing the most miles, the last station, the end of earth and existence.
In some way you have known the base emotion, and what has been the guise of continuity, it is a new
Reality, a new abstraction, there are no contradictions. The checked premise and the realization
In words and concepts, those things we have known all along.
The realization is loved and hated at the same time, and it can only be beneficial that the welcome
Exceeds the hatred. The desperate homage to the masses is fading from the tangibleness, and is
Replaced the the disquieting base physical feeling of the impending no mater being undesired.
More important is the knowledge, that the precepts and premises held
Without words have the tangible meaning long desired,
And that the intangible reward, that can only be shared with few.
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 9:02 PM UTC
the seat was empty
but the guy sitting next to it looked like an *******
so i elected to stand
and celebrate the vacant air of non-assholery, next to the doors
the atmosphere seems almost more friendly
but the celebration was to be short-lived
as the cabin was soon filled out at the next stop
non-natives, they were, mostly
settling into the space quickly, without fuss—without hesitation
already looking ahead to the next part of their journey
with a disquieting look of weariness and anxiety
a not too uncommon look on locals as well
but the locals were different
they had their techno-gadgets to distract themselves with
whereas the non-natives had to content themselves
with staring at the urban scenery outside
or at themselves
which often offers very little comfort, i must say
interesting how everybody tries to find their own space
in a place which doesn’t actually offer much
the bell then rings, and a distinctly un-Singaporean voice announced
i have arrived at my destination
so i made my exit, eager to start the next part of my journey
ready to embrace the future
where we are no longer judged by the colour of our skin
only by the things that we possess
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 10:18 PM UTC
Is quiet noise
Peacefully disquieting
Shredding sanity to zillion
Pieces.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 7:39 AM UTC
We estimate a teen gets a ***** stuck up his or her **** every four seconds.
Vacuous air space remains in the ****** for some time afterwards.
Oh yeah. Up my *** Up my *** Up my *** A lit candle–up my *** A firecracker, a finger, a thumb–up my *** An egg. A vibratin' egg. A scrambled egg.
Well, yeah, my *** may be big, but I don't recall a song ever being written about your flat one. Interesting!
It really does smell like something crawled up my *** and died.
It is even more disquieting to find mold growing, pink splotches – Are they from outerspace?
*** angel wings, like the kind they got in greeting cards and **** float over to 'em, I'm floating, cause I'm dead.
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 1:47 AM UTC
They tell me that
inserting a stent in an artery
these days is no different
than lancing a boil in my ***
when I was a kid.
It should reassure me,
but the use of a phrase
such as invasive surgery
fills me with such dread,
as does the hated “C” word
that rattles round involuntarily
in my head.
And even worse
is when they call it
Percutaneous Coronary Intervention
or PCI for short
but not for long
before the dreaded doubts
once more invade my mind
in sinuous counterpoint
to that more disquieting
portent of invasion.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
in his love
my spirit softened
like a fragrant balm
had been soothed
over the raging storm
of my disquieting
thoughts,
within my soul
the storm
had been quelled
and a stillness
fell about
my feet
like autumn leaves
softly
silently
covering the ground
blanketing
that
which i always wished
would swallow me
whole
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
24 begins with its cruel rule:
"No sustenance or quenching of thirst
until the sad/happy day passes."
Caring women with initials enter
Poking, prodding, asking the same questions,
While loved ones nervously watch.
Close friends, friends, and strangers
Phone and visit, offering their comforting words.
"We love you." "We're praying for you."
"Make a pact with God." "Chin up!" "Happy Birthday!"
Their messages intermingle with disquieting thoughts
Of hopes and dreams left unfulfilled.
"Why me?" "What now?" "I knew it was too good to be true."
As hunger gnaws, and expectation is postponed.
A caring woman with initials enters one last time,
Poking, prodding, asking the same questions,
As the pushers of the bed arrive with their benign smiles.
Unwanted darkness returns,
As uncommon mortals work at their bizarre craft,
Opening the golden bowl,
Exposing its precious contents.
East and West Coast loved ones,
Separated by time and circumstance,
Carry on their prayerful vigil.
As 24 continues,
Surrounded by love,
Sustained by hope.
Oct 25, 2019
Oct 25, 2019 at 11:41 AM UTC
On this day in 1963, Sylvia Plath, a beautiful woman and well known poet, committed suicide in her apartment. A rare recording of her reading her poem The Disquieting Muses was released.
https://www.brainpickings.org/2014/10/27/sylvia-plath-reads-the-disquieting-muses-bbc/
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 10:24 AM UTC
To say I'm excited about going to college is like saying Godzilla is big - you don't get the complete picture - you don't see the buildings crumbling and civilians running for their lives. Leaving for college is one of those foundational moments in life...
My mind’s been racing, I’ve felt a disquieting anxiety and I realized what I’m experiencing is a new kind of sadness - a “delta” strain new in my experience.
In less than a week I‘m off to college and I can’t help knowing that things will never be the same. I’ll step out of this house or we’ll hug at the airport and somewhere in there - I’ll cross a line.
Will my childhood be over or is it my adolescence? I’m not sure.
Oh, God, should I hand in my key??
I can hardly let my mind linger on the subject of leaving - it’s as sensitive as a tooth - it’s radioactive.
The most fleeting or off-handed reference to leaving and my heart hammers, my throat clumps and the room transforms into a thrill ride that starts to slowly spin until the floor drops a bit like an elevator. 30 seconds of focusing on leaving and I’m a muckle of tears.
I’m mindlessly, Flamin' Doritos excited about college (the going to) but like a sacrifice, or a coin - there’s a cold, flip-side, almost death-like sadness (about leaving) happening too.
So far, I think I’ve masked the sadness, with the cat’s lazy poise and razzle-dazzle and I’m sure this feeling of loss is some sort of pre-home-sickness that will pass. Until then, I'm stoically trying to wear a big-girl skirt here.
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 1:12 PM UTC