On disappearing...

First proper thing I've written in months. Which came out in a total rush.

There, a page over, lies a greater visibility to all things 
which define movement. As for my world, it seems extinct. 
Famished. Unseasoned and unfinishable. 

I speak of disappearance as if it were 
a romantic interlude, where I could return to a life 
lived in between suspense and a desire for all that breathes 
and quickly unravels. 

Turquoise is my mood most days. A colour that scrapes the air 
with magic, that touches my hands with an almost frightening scent 
of what tomorrow might bring. There is danger in this discomfort 
that I might live too long, forget the reason I am still here, 
waiting for a question that will never be answered until I am gone, 
a home away from home, a tissue blown twice too many times 
to afford any space upon which to clear my lungs again. 

So I can breathe eternal, jump and skip as if I was 
seven years old again, mud stuck to my gumboots, 
searching for mushrooms, and magpies ready to attack 
the next shimmering light in a forest. 

I am a boy afraid to go to sleep most nights, afraid of 
not quite dreaming the dreams I'd saved for just that moment 
when disaster escapes another life to enter yours 
until you wake up, knowing there is no release, no sense 
of being one with another until they open their lips 
and tell you themselves not to worry, not to be so cold 
or alone out there in this smoky city, windows open 
to possibilities, time clicking down into an enigma 
of companionship, locked hands and locked hearts 
writing turquoise into the sky with you. 

Reviews

[W.k.kortas]

There is a certain valedictory tone to this, a longing which is downright palpable. The references to magic and childhood, the specific references to turquoise (which, if you believe your mood ring, suggests a certain pensiveness) seem to suggest a narrator in flux, neither not quite in the moment nor back in some happier, more placid time. The pacing of the piece is lovely, especially the final stanza which has a certain romantic (and Romantic) feel to it. A fine, fine piece of work.

[Vol]

J,
Turquoise is magic. It does seem to tie things together, my triangle ear stud, catches the eye and make a connection I can see in the observer's iris. The color of that poem, those words waiting one page over, like Schrodinger's cat may be all you need, or be nothing at all, but there it is... It might be the reason you don't live too long, or else a reminder of the reason for it all. But it is probably about the failure opf love...
Vol

[emmajoygreen]

There seems to be a hesitant 'shall I, can I?' here as if half asleep: one foot in the rising hubbub of day, the other sleeping yet mind kindly working. Disappearance is the warmest Linus blanket of all, hiding frpm others but often more aware of self because of self-imposed isolation Your choice of colour, the mood it offers is one with subtle presence.. there but not brash, seen without invitation. Your gradually fading phases are slipping into a kind of safety, as if walking a double path might be wider but is also richer. Your 'other' is comfort and light - perhaps. A poem to re.read. Finely put.

[Elise Anton]

Your words resonate with me. I feel I know you. Thank you for expressing what some of us are unable to, and doing it so exquisitely. Those pesky magpies swoping down every Spring...

[Wordpress]

This was maybe the most interesting poem I read today, it had parts that I read over and over again like the first stanza. I liked how transcendent and metaphysical it was, and yet dangled over its own mortality.

[Ed Hart]

often it's the rushing things that get away, but sometimes when they're caught and fixed to the page, they're worth their weight in turquoise ink, with which you've traced the air with magic...wonderfully wrought

[TL Boehm]

Turquoise is my mood most days. A colour that scrapes the air
with magic, that touches my hands with an almost frightening scent
of what tomorrow might bring.

we need more of this here - this heady stuff - this poetry to lose oneself in. Yes.

[Marie Anzalone]

J, always so nice to log in and see a new offering from you, here. You wove into this piece so many tantalizing little thoughts to ponder on; I especially liked the source of nightmares seen as disasters that escape other lives. Brilliant. About disappearing; I am learning that maybe it is hard for any of us (who are truly feeling, compassinate human beings) to stay connected at a high level, all the time- seems we need breaks of varying sizes, shapes and intensities in order to recuperate, maybe?

[J]

I think you are right about needing breaks; both in regards to this poem and to an actual break from writing (or, at least, the intensity of it). Thank you, Marie.