"umbilical" poems
ugly men burning their bay leaves
in pots of static gardens
underneath all this cement
your past is looking at you indecently
so change the words around you
you can shift their meaning
its all a game and no-one's winning
your tired emotions accent your poetry
umbrellas are scars that carry symphonies in their hearts
you held my hand as we welcomed god back into our skylines
her face is as familiar as the stars
we originated from
with ulcers open in quiet hurting
your youth are wordless and distrustful of angst ridden authority
in unsuspecting situations love’s vacation is ending
her wedding gown got quite *****
since she literally spent her entire honeymoon
wandering idly into banks of muddy water
humanity is worthy of justice and sweaty romance
i breathe your flesh into my bottle
and we take boundless walks upon the clouds
that straddle mountains, graveyards and cemeteries
fresh from wading in the rice fields
i peeled you a ripe banana
under pressure your sweater came off
and revealed a perfect metric for us to emulate
your eye sockets are two umbilical chords
and your voice is a curved sword that cuts through fear
like the moon slices through the sky
i have held all of this inside for far too long
and now it comes shattering forth
spilling itself over every page
every letter an escapade almost as long
as an Eskimo's pilgrimage to safety
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
Derartu, Haile, Tirunesh
Kenenisa, Meseret, and all
With a similar footfall!
Displaying a superb
Long-distance athletic feat
When many superstars
Awe inspiringly you beat
And as a result of it
When your sought-for
Fought-for
And nation- prayed-for
Dream proves a hit
And also with kudos
A stadium full of people opt
You to greet
And when spectators
Accord you a high five
It is for your country's flag
You immediately dive!
Also on the podium
while Ethiopia's row-wise
Green,Yellow and Red
Emblazoned flag,
Shoulder high,
Soars above
You express
Your umbilical cord-tight
National love
With tears that
Trickle down each of
Your cheek,quick.
Is it because
Reminiscent of
Each living hero
With a life sacrifice
That brought colonial
Aggression to zero?
Is it because
The bounty of the land
You grew up
Seeing first hand?
Is it because
The cherished corner
You cut in the heart of
The poor but prideful
Ethiopian neighbour?
Is it because
The unity in diversity
That showcases
Ethiopia's identity
Or citizens hospitality?
Is it because
At heart strings a tug
Or ,among others
Gratefulness to
Your iron-strong lung
When you hear
Ethiopian anthem sung?
Is it because a secret another
Deep down you harbour?
Is it because the Fertility
Hope and Sovereignty ideals
The flag advance,
Also Ethiopia's being
A beacon of independence
What is more
The nation's renaissance
Which in a curtain of mist
Before your eyes dance?
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
I think Poetry found me very early,
From somewhere in mama's womb.
Hooked to her umbilical cord firmly.
I heard something like a tiny bomb.
It was the sound of the talking drum,
Heralding the arrival of another grio.
So with gratitude, I said thanks mom,
And to the world, I said a very big hello.
Of course, I used the language of babies,
I cried and breathed in my very first air.
This was my first sight of the ladies
They smiled as they washed my hair.
My very first poem was a sad prayer.
It was written when I was very hungry
I was hopeless, I had only one dollar,
And no real prospect of ever making it.
So I took out my old used notepad,
UnfortunateIy, I had no pen to write with.
I wrote with a charcoal found in the yard,
And I wrote many long lines on my wall.
I wrote everything I had to tell God
Sadly, I couldn't write them all.
I cried in anguish to the Lord,
Asking If He had forgotten me.
Of Course, I got no immediate answer,
But years later my answer came.
It came in the form of a letter.
Addressed to me, ten years later
It came later but it felt better,
Instantly my struggle was all over!
The first love letter I wrote was poetry,
It was childish, unstructured and ugly.
It was written to a girl, she was pretty,
She read it and smiled, I wasn't so lucky.
Crushed, yet I pretended to be strong
I walked away but ran all the way home.
I cried in anguish and wrote a love song.
The lines were very sad, I felt all alone.
But I knew it was my first real rejection.
So I tried writing again, this time to me.
I was very focused, I was on a mission.
Finally, it finished and I wrote my name.
Unfortunately, the answer was the same,
There and then I knew I had no game,
So I reconciled and just took the blame.
Fast forward,and many years later,
I found the subject of my love letter.
I wrote a note to her on messenger.
I was optimistic because I wrote better.
I was emboldened by my poetic power.
Once again,the reply came to me later,
This time it was a resounding yes!
It felt so wonderful, thanks to poetry
And the universe I didn't make a mess.
#IvanBrooksPoetry©
7/22/2018
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
how sad to be misunderstood
to be evicted from life
to have the full tenure
of a torrid human existence
gesture horribly at you
in faultless reputation
like that of a rancid rage
over a lost trinket
or to be quarantined
while fingerless skin scolds
and noiseless voices are raised
in a donated generosity of savage ignorance
striving to make copious amends
in vain efforts to regrettable
slow acting poison that boils the mind
oh how sad to be misunderstood
such varicose viciousness
oh it’s sad quite sad to be misunderstood
to live through and inoculated hour glass
giving limitless time to a wildfire of idiocy
and when your breath speaks they laugh
black laughter that shatters wet umbilical truths
shudders
knowledge gestures to smoking nostrils
oh how sad, how sad it is to be misunderstood
to be drenched in the rain but not get wet
in which antiquity rests with its
mythologised stupendous ill effects
getting vivid shadows massed all around
oh how sad it is to be misunderstood
until dactylic, hexameter, elegance
completes and slithering syllables
by their antiquity focus a shuddering shriek
that sends an exploding heart through your chest
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
1.Today you hatched, you cut your own umbilical cord
your brothers will cut your hands off
you will find them in gift shops
your brothers will regret hurting you
you will regret hurting them
look down at your hands
they are the most selfish part of you
I saw a man with scars covering his head
his soul seemed to crawl through them
like ivy
the roots held his feet down at the steps
He kept walking
I saw a woman put a gun to her head
One hand on the chair, expecting it to sink
She sounded like a broken door bell
I watched her forget her name
it still echoed through the house
spiders crawled out of her mouth
looking for terrible words
to describe the ache
I called her mother
to stop them from biting
there are days i sit still
in the cracks of furniture, walls, skin
I begin to ask myself why I feel full
when i was thinning
culmination of self sabotage
held my mother's depravity finally
i told her,
I want to slap some sense into your stupid face
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
You are my mother:
I suffer separation anxiety when I'm not with you.
My headphones are the umbilical cord
that keeps me close to you.
Maybe I should invest in scissors.
You are my child:
I must pamper you or else
you'll throw tantrums.
Maybe I should look into tough love.
You are my friend:
I like your company best
and you go nearly everywhere with me.
You never talk back,
but you never talk at all.
Maybe I should make more friends.
You are my lover:
buffering is our foreplay.
You've always been good at seducing me
but the *** is crap.
Maybe we should see other people.
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 12:06 AM UTC
Fought
One, Twenty-two skidoo.
Cantankerous mad filamous
She,
That of her,
Me.
Piñata, stretched balloon
Over my big fleshy
******
Tea and cakes,
Painted my nails
Painted my lips
Like candy.
Gold trinkets,
Pour like mercury out of my ear.
Ouch! I cried
My feet in hot sandy
Dreams.
Flying peacocks tickle
My *****
Oranges roll on chalk board tables
Over stale rye bread.
***** dribbles out like mucus
And a runny nose.
Toilet paper and rusty water.
********** on you.
Stocking lover.
Fetish cover.
Woman pusher.
Mellifluous ****
Look at my skin.
Pink, beige, peach, red
Porous, greasy, bacteria ridden hide.
**** me like seppuku,
Smother, suffocate me with
Red jelly jam.
Lubricate your finger with black
Cancerous ash.
Stick it in my naval,
Unravel my umbilical cord
Like so many filaments of my heart.
Tear your flesh
You auto *********
Rip your liver
And force feed it
Corn and maize
Hay and grass
Emory my nails against
Red barn walls
Until bare skin fundamentals
Kisses with salty lips
Inflame my ravishing
Pig stomach.
Kick my shin you
Everything,
Wake up you stupid
*****
Void can be blue skies,
Oceans call for suicide.
Kiss me with delight,
Raspberries tattooed
In my *****
Strawberry cream
Vanilla, milk,
Ponderous infinity,
Cotton, dough
Honey and sage.
Caustic gastric
You and not me.
Feel my legs,
Touch my thighs,
Lick my lips,
Give me anything
Not direct.
Tie me up in complexities.
**** my head up.
Put me in a dream,
Make me happy.
Blair Butterfield 2004
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:09 AM UTC
You can taste
the psychosis on my
lips but there's no
guarantee that I will feel it.
There's an umbilical chord
holding me down to ***** reality
and depending on my
perspective
it either looks like a
dog leash or a
noose.
Inject a sedative with a rusty
needle at the end of my
nervous system. I'm immune; there's
misery mixed in with my
white blood cells that swallows
all sense of introspection. When my
soul plummets down like an anchor
and the floating stops
feeling safe, I welcome the chest
pains with open arms. The pins and
needles in my lungs are better
than burning them.
Look through my eyes
and sometimes nothing is real.
Live through my heart and
it hurts like hell when
I'm not drowning in air.
Think with my head and
either you will want to get out,
or it will kick you out.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
All comforts we create
Can't compare to the womb
All our fears of fate
Drive us toward the tomb
They cut the umbilical cord
They way I cut my phone cord
Leaving me alone and torn
Wishing I could curl up in a curl
And experience comfort from the world
Where people pay with change
Because they have no money
And people pay with rain
Because they have no honey
I've seen the chaos of fire
And the serenity of water
And the steam that rises when they're combined
The wet ashes of love mix into a thick cement
And become the heart's hardened womb
The heart's hellish hatred blooms
From within the darkness
Bringing us hardships
When my brain is in my eyes
It brings discomfort in disguise
Like the discomfort when I lie
And say I don't give a **** about what others think
Mentally I have become fetal
Yet I'm trying to sound regal
The illusion of indifference
Protects me from conversation
Like the womb or the tomb
And the broom is the tool
That sweeps dirt up under the rug
When my heartstrings begin to tug
The womb is the only place clean and snug
In a world where people become mindless weapons
The womb becomes a pistol
Blasting bullets into the Earth
We save our solidarity
For the moments when massive amounts of people die
And the bar seems to keep rising
And we forget the importance of one
Until we are hit personally
And look down to see blood from multiple wounds
The result of gunshots fired by multiple wombs
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 3:38 AM UTC
The unseen is so intangible to humanity that it screams Hersey in defense of limited carnal senses. Even if the womb could inhabit scientists in pre-birth form they could merely predict that the umbilical cord was the result of the big bang which was brought on by flatulence before the great earthquake of indigestion. The true miracle of birth is the unseen…how in the darkness of gestation a blind love is reflected through a heartbeat that is perceived only physiologically. They could never fathom the deeper water of love that a man has with a women! Conversely we are not immune to this fallibility within the new embryonic process called mother earth and its new limited senses that perceive love as tangible. Love is not a feeling like an umbilical cord or is it a marriage that brings beauty and personal happiness on earth. Love is bigger than the thick and thin of this imperfect dieing world! Marriage is the umbilical cord to a true love that is again unseen and reflected in the heartbeat of the Cross which eclipses all Physiological and cognitive impulses. Love never fades………………….
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
The journey
to real self-love
is not always easy
There are so many elements
that can trip you up:
jagged rocks
that slightly jut out from
the silken, earthy surface
paths of black ice
that look clear
but slide you from your course
their invisibility
only tangent
after the fall
light flash floods
that turn into monsoons
at a moment's notice
a reflection of clear blue sky
that somehow turns
into a seemingly solid wall
But if we can hold on
and somehow stay connected
to the shining root within
let it hold us in place like an
invisible anchor
the floating umbilical cord
that connects us
to our inner mirror
deep reflection
and resurrection
Then we will know
that every slip
is truly temporary
and only leads us to the
improved firework
of ourselves:
for nothing can stop us
No matter what
we will blossom into
the very electric flowers
we were meant to,
and, at our own
blessed pace,
burst into
the gentle ululation
of
the stars
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
~
the true art of loving is
to never stop touching!
touching, holding,
caressing, stroking...
such is the nature of
love's connection;
a twine intertwined
through touch,
the stringing,
the *********
the fingers that clasp,
that reach out to grasp;
oh marvelous,
tenderest touch!
why is it that
any of us stop?
would we,
could we,
if we really knew?
that touch was a gift
one of the few
that gifts immortality,
gives liberality;
indeed,
would we
ever,
or
never
stop touching?
and God could only
know why
we would ever ask
to be left alone,
cold as a stone,
the untouchable we;
how could we deny
that one, that only
who for our heart longs
truest mate of our soul.
babies need it,
toddlers do it,
children want it,
teens use it,
young ones wish it,
lovers gift it,
mid-lifers pine and
seniors return to it...
there is never
a stage or
a cycle of life
where we should
or ever could
cease to be needing it
ever stop touching
or being touched.
for touch is
love's connection,
the umbilical chord,
a neuron cable,
the neutron bundle,
oh blanket of hope...
it feeds us,
a life line,
an air line
that needs us;
a love line to
the divine
that renews us,
and will
inevitably,
ultimately,
eventually,
totally
hold us,
as we walk
the path through,
eternity past,
present and
what is to come!
for touch...
indivisible from love,
and love never dies;
love never ceases!
yes,
the true art of touching is
to never stop loving!
~
*post script.
we watched so many who loved
stop touching through the years
and then wonder what happened
as embers once hot grew cold.
touch is a gift,
to be shared
and not hoarded!*
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
For at least a week now,
shrivelled leaf-like globes
of heliotrope and platinum,
umbilical cords
caught on the top
of a lamppost's ***** finger,
jostling, huddled together
in the breeze
like players in a scrum.
I go past on the top deck,
see those wrinkled baubles
skirmish, wish to leave
and drift in mist
before rasping
with a whimper,
an out-of-breath splat
of colour caught
in some tree.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
I woke up and the sun is shining,
majestically emitting its golden glow.
In spite of this, it's a cold Scandinavian morning
and boy, the sun is putting up a real show.
So what's really going on here I asked,
why am I not yet sweating profusely?
Why am I not yet drenched in sweat and sunbaked,
Or is the arid heat being turned on slowly?
By birth, I was born a Liberian, a true African,
my umbilical cord was buried near the Equator.
My nationality is Norwegian, a Scandinavian
By virtue of the winter, I always feel like a visitor.
The African sun would shine until we hide or run
just to avoid the scorching heat and humidity.
The Scandinavian sun I feel shines and people have fun,
A factor to make me question the sun's true nationality.
So is it the same sun that rises at about 5 am in Ghana,
The one that shines brightly on the vaults of the Ashanti gold?
If it's the sun worshiped by Ancient Egypt, of the sun god Akana,
So why doesn't it burn away the snow and the extreme cold?
©️IB-Poetry
2/20/2018
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 4:03 AM UTC
A synthetic thunderstorm envelops me
and I forget where my life is.
I forget about you and your fluent tongue
of disinterest, puppetry, and misinformation.
I forget the speakers and soundscapes;
wires and ties and strings attached,
the way I struggle to sleep alone,
but cannot share my life with anyone.
I forget the next payday, the next lay;
the need to borrow words and feelings
just to make sense of my own.
Distraction and hunger for nicotine
become near-echoes of a past life-
an umbilical bond to old decades
of habit and mistrust for the sober mind.
I forget the ash and ends I have left behind.
The ocean is close but occupies no space,
only the airwaves with a rhythmic breath
to still my own, reducing my identity
to fractals of self-interest and oneness.
I forget who I am amongst the writing desk,
The Book Of Longing, the cooling tea;
the stagnant water. I forget flesh desire,
violent *** and apologetic *******
I forget, for once, the need to live,
amongst all of this living.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
What was her name?
**** I can’t remember.
It was a boy’s name
made feminine
with a little “i” at the end
like maybe hearing it would
make you think of
some fat guy making pizzas
until you see it
spelled out or
until it becomes attached
to her lips and hair and
skin.
The “i” was not dotted
with a little heart,
(not her style at all) but
I should have a picture
in a box some where with more pictures.
I don’t.
I’ve got little notes,
tiny thoughts scribbled
on empty match book covers,
on the backs of
pretentious
business cards,
in the borders of
the mutilated,
amputated flesh
of decrepit
used up yellow pages,
ripped from a dead and
disjointed phone book.
I woke up from this dream
and groped for something
to scrawl on,
anything,
because it seemed significant
at 2:38 am.
In the desert somewhere,
(I’ve never even been)
you were
looking out the window
and the way the parched
dry light crackled
around you
you might have been an angel
or a sign
partially occluded by glass
advertising something
I could never afford
like family or god
when suddenly you were not
a silhouette,
not back lit,
but glowing.
You were so in love, with
who I don’t know, and you
went into free fall
back
onto the bed
pulled your knees up
to your chest and
kicked your legs giggling.
I was part dead, half ghost
and still happy that you
were so happy.
I said, “you’re pregnant?”
knowing the way you
know things without
really having a way
of knowing
in a dream.
You laughed again
grabbed your little dog up
in your arms,
(I’ve no idea where the pup
came from), and baby-whispered,
“You’re going to cut
the umbilical,
aren’t you?”
and I woke with
the image of that mongrel
chewing through
the cord.
I am
waiting at the pharmacy
and the…
technician,
is reading the
cryptic symbols
penned in
indiscernible Latin,
my prescription.
She is not beautiful
but very fuckable
And in my mind
I am constructing an
image of her ******
likening
the shape,
size, color, etc.,
to her mouth,
when I see
my own writing on
the back
through her precise
fingers.
The tech,
she is holding a
snapshot of her.
It might as well be
a picture of me
vomiting or
************ or
defecating.
This
is what I have left,
my version of a photo,
my dream,
scrawled on the back
of my medicine.
**** getting better.
I ****** it from her hand.
I leave fast. I will
never go back.
This is no chemical imbalance.
This is not my inheritance.
The loss and pain, sometimes,
that's the pill we need to swallow.
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 11:14 PM UTC
Your mother rolled out pastry
with the rolling pin
her hands pushing the implement
across the board
and you watched
her floured skin work their skill
backward and forward
under the palms of her hands
the thinning pastry
spreading out to an inch of width
until her hands stopped
and she flipped it over
and spread more flour
upon the board
with a flick and smoothing touch
of her hand
once that task was done
she lifted it to the dish
and eased it around inside
and around the edges
with her fingers and thumbs
working their way
in a circular motion
around the dish
then cut with a knife
the over hanging
unneeded pastry
and put it aside
like an umbilical cord
once the baby’s born
as her hands placed in
the stewed apple filling
you said
can I have the left over bits?
pointing to the wasted pastry
left aside
sure you can
she said
moving on with her skill
as you picked up the pastry
and walked away
noticing the sadness
in her watery eyes
and strained voice and words
following you across the room
as you ate the pastry
between your fingers
like a bird of prey.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
Lee was posted up in in usual spot
back by the stacks,
with his phone on life support.
Its umbilical cord was knotted up like a nest,
and held together by electrical tape.
It sat next to his vape
box and a stack of books
about the GED, twenty-fist century
side hustles and back issues of Ebony.
People come in and out of the library
and everyone says hi to Lee,
He is the man to see,
He asks about their lives and gives sage advice –
How you been, my man?
How’s the kids doin’, girl?
How’s married life treatin’ you, my dude?
My man, you gotta do this.
Babygirl, look into that.
Don’t wear your hat like that,
Boy, ya look silly.
Lee lives in a van
that he parks nearby
so he can job-hunt on the free wifi
even when the place is closed.
If you feel sorry for me, don’t
says Lee
I’m the freest now I’ll ever be,
so, don’t you dare take pity on me
I’m doing all I can do,
being all I can be.
Everything’s temporary.
Tomorrow I could be you,
you could be me
we’re just one bad day,
one scratch-off lottery ticket away
from swapping places, my man.
Yeah, I live in that van
parked outside the library
but if you think I’m sad,
you’re thinking wrong,
Won’t see me moping, or doping
floating along
you won’t see me frowning,
or drowning,
singing a sad song.
I’m happy with all that I got
who wouldn’t wanna be in my spot,
I’m The King
of the Library Parking Lot.
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 1:17 PM UTC
Impregnated with uncertainty
Long overdue
Waiting on opportunity
My patience is subdued
Attempted abortions
With 4th trimester distortions
Stillbirth ensues
Screams inside the sirens
Struck with hospitalization
Bedridden doormen
Realization…
The time arrives
With labor pains
And liberation pangs
I cut the umbilical chains
Only a piece of me remains
I feel the guarantee
The time is now
I feel parturiency…
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 4:22 PM UTC
Tasting the cold rain
of her lullaby dreamscape
I floated through
her open streets
like open veins
where we carried out
our transfusion of love
such was
the umbilical cord of trust between us
such was
a long night's passions
not a drop wasted
she swallowed
the waters that were spilt in open corridors
rivers wide and winter white
ever fluid as they wound their way
into her dreamscape
spinning webs of reality from potential
and on nights
like this
I dream of who would have become if she loved me
but she dared not
and the cobwebs never spooled again
never cast their wide net
out into the hungry world
where babes go to die and ne'er do wells
eat breakfasts with smiles
I waited for her
and she never came
it was then I knew the brutal cruelty of the world
how
promises age
like foul eggs
wherein one thinks oneself soon to be fed
cracks open the vault of life
and goes mad
from the sight of the bitter truth
that all men die of heartache
long before their bodies give out
long before they never heard "I love you"
from tongues not forked
and lips not peppered
with the winter wonders
of myriad men
to whom love was also promised
and never made manifest
Sep 18, 2022
Sep 18, 2022 at 12:24 AM UTC
You broke the umbilical cord attached to this earth . With the south by southwest winds you rode a baleful streak . Like Poncho your life was left untold . Like a desert prayer that's just a whisper in the cold evening air .
Where they laid your body to rest , no one said . Now it's too late .
The virga falls never to quench the thirsty sands . The sorrow is planted as corn in rows of fertile futility . And dust is harvested , dust and tumbleweeds .
Reasons are the excuses we need to answer all the questions why . There is no reason in the south by southwest wind . And the tumbleweeds bend to the sympathy of an incessant desire .
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
The fearful python had swallow
Our fearless inner fellow,
See and hear the waves
Marching in their endless ranks,
Smashing blood against the
Rocks at the Burundi cliff,
Will the fog of despair and wail
Hung over Rwanda for long?
Hmm, the emotion of this moment
Has swallowed our African thought,
Oh no, this curious season
Has caused us to reason,
Will our rain be pain?
Will our pain be gain?
May be, when the rain fell on the
Leopard skin, it washed off its spots,
Behold, the endless umbilical cord
Of Africa has every reason to bleed,
For the bitter sword had
No respect for our mother’s womb,
Will our sorrow be fate?
Will our fate be hollow?
May be, when the frog in front fell,
The others behind did not take caution.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 5:53 AM UTC
I was eight,
My cousin was eighteen.
He called his mother Mom
"When will I be old enough,"
I asked
"to call my mama Mom?"
Mom seemed a privilege
to be earned with age.
Eight year olds had to say
"mama" or "mommy"
I experimented with Mom
such a deliciously Western term.
I addressed birthday cards to Mom
and mother's day cards to Mom
She didn't seem to mind
so I started calling mama Mom
But the novelty wore off
and I got sick of Mom and of mom
And I wanted nothing to do with mom
so I wouldn't even call her Mom
She was Alia.
I called her by her first name
because I resented Mom and mom for loving me.
I called her Alia
She called me Daughter
a forceful reminder of the umbilical cord.
Then I went away to university,
over the Atlantic Ocean
a 14 hour plane ride away.
And I wouldn't call at all.
I wouldn't call to call her "mama" or "mommy" or Mom or even Alia.
But she would call
And she would call me Daughter
or "habibti" or "my sunshine."
And I didn't want to hear it.
I was eighteen
and I didn't need Mom.
I was gone eight months
and I didn't miss Mom
I didn't miss the Middle East
I didn't want to be home
I think She hated me for a while.
Then I was back in Toronto
University got hard
And I got tired
And I couldn't sleep
And friends proved false
And I got fat.
So I called Alia
And she stayed on skype with me, singing
Arabic Nursery Rhymes
until she saw I was asleep
And Mom watched me sleep.
But "mommy"
kept the laptop on all night
In case I woke up scared
and needed to call out for her
from across the Atlantic.
And "mama"
is at home
waiting for me
with a hug
And I just want to go back
and do it over
so I could take back every day
that I didn't call her
mommy.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 3:54 PM UTC
I was conceived on acid and whippets, the drugs a kaleidoscope of umbilical dreams.
I was conceived on bad luck and lust, from darkness and sexually exploitive childhood trauma.
I was conceived on teenage dreams and difficult childhoods, to black sheep children of 17.
I was raised on addiction and narcissism, a love bomb here and authoritarian abuse there.
I was raised on the chess long game, to lose a piece here means to win at the end.
I was raised on 2000s tv, Lorelei Gilmore my wish for a mother, Rory my idol.
I taught myself strength in building up a fantasy on the outside while my castle crumbled within.
I picked myself up by the tendrils of a lost childhood, by the whispers of good memories, by the hiding places I found in pages upon pages of someone else’s imagination.
And I let it all go at 28. To find peace. To start over. To build myself a new castle with no more haunted corners or echoes of pill bottles or smells of ***** and orange juice permeating the breaths of those who walk these sacred halls.
Rib cage cut open, heart destroyed and renewed, ancient umbilical nooses cut with teeth.
I will no longer fall victim to my mother’s circumstances or my father’s mistakes, I will never have the soul I’ve created look at me and ask himself if he is loved or safe.
I am cycle breaker,
I am generational karma’s worst ******* fear,
I am no longer frightened maiden,
I am fearsome mother.
I am new.
May 17, 2022
May 17, 2022 at 12:15 PM UTC
The journey began under a cloudy sky with rain hovering over the horizon. – Going back. – The painter saw the vision. Was it real? Or Was it just the shadow of the storm? The painter saw the canvass. Forms danced before his eyes. Thunder clapped in the distance. The brush moved to the rhythm of the storm that only the painter heard. A lifeline from the clouds like an umbilical cord. – Going back. – The painter focused again. The clouds thickened, blackening against the horizon in anticipation. – Going back. – The painter saw himself. He’d stopped painting. Now going back. – Going back. – The painter wondered. The painter asked himself. The painter took a brush, squeezed paint on the palette; color after color – a new variety. – Going back. – The unknown. A new beginning. – Going back. – The white of the canvass and the blackening sky. The storm. Pure color. Mixing color as the storm moved closer. A clap of thunder. The painter looked at the sky. The painter dabbed the brush onto the palette. Rain began. The brush danced to a rhythm. Thunder claps. Sweeping across the sky; sweeping across the canvass. – Going back. – The painter looked at his painting. The painter looked at the sky. The painter was happy. – Going back.
8/13/19
www.bruclevine.com
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B07485W4Q1
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 1:16 PM UTC