Haunted

 

 

Take all the shadows off my pristine wall

Let me paint and dress myself in glossy case

Banish the mirror with its open cracked face

Shut my ears so no voice in my head can call

 

Let the past be with its endless weary thoughts

Let me hold my own and dance in every hall

Crippled stiletto heels I can still walk tall

Let me build a gold cage of a thousand forts

 

Where is the blues and pain I erased it all

Filled and varnished every crack there ever was

Now I stand here erect I could paint the stars

Pretend there was a summer never a fall

 

Still on starless moonless nights you will find me

Slowly scratching beneath the surface veneer

All my fleece lined finery can’t keep me dear

From the baying voices that won’t let me be

 

I can try to run from the thoughts in my head

Too often now I know the past is not dead

Reviews

[emmajoy]

' .. Now I stand here erect I could paint the stars - Pretend there was a summer never a fall .. '

Wonderfully descriptive, such a great use of metaphors, beautiful tableaux of how!

I think of memories as being experience, lessons learned;once felt or endured they can only guide us in the direction best for the individual. We cant escape, cant wholly forget but can be led along a better path. Perhaps?

[Alicia Schroeder]

It seems sometimes the past lingers forever and creeping up unexpectedly, to paint a picture of it with words is splendid, Great peice...

[Extant]

I can't believe I've had this just sitting in my library, waiting to be read. (I'm a fool.)
Like all of your writing it's absolutely beautiful. "Banish the mirror with it's open cracked face," you seem truly haunted, and this was just the line that stuck in my head. The descriptions you have; the stars, the sky, the seasons, are all perfectly used to convey your struggle to get out from under the thumb of your haunting past (at least, I think that's what is haunting you).

[MOON]

Thank you so much for this lovely review , go well and take care.

[Jack...]

I love the affect this poem brings to my mind. The visions it paints are surreal, yet the poem, the feel, the touch of it is somewhat soft in nature. Nicely done.

[MOON]

Thanks Jack , always appreciate when you stop by. Take care.

[Cool Handless Luke]

...Now I stand here erect I could paint the stars

Pretend there was a summer never a fall...

there is beauty to be found even in the darkest of poems if one does it right. i can relate to this piece as i am sure most of us who have actually dared to live a life can. memories and regrets go hand in hand with some being totally impossible to forget and a true test of humanity to bring yourself to forgive...even ones self. very eloquent poem moon.

[MOON]

Thank you for stopping by, love your writing beautiful poignant imagery will read more! Take care

[Emerald Seas]

A well versed write of how our past rears its head in our thoughts. Until we face what lingers, the past does continue to haunt, no matter how many times we try to gloss it over or kid ourselves into believing it is behind us. Thoroughly enjoyed this reading.

[MOON]

True, thanks Sirrah, take care!

[Angi]

We can gloss and varnish and paint all day long. Those blemishes are still there, peeking through. It's how we learn to live with them. Nicely done!

[MOON]

Thank you for the review , most appreciated !

[Angi]

My pleasure, Moon!

[FJ Davis]

If the past haunts us, if it won't allow us to fully commit to the rest of our lives, it is either because we have some unknown, unresolved problems, or we are called back to a setting that, for whatever reason, makes us feel happier, more at-home.
The former is largely unconscious; the latter can be a choice.
Now that I've said these things, I don't know why the hell I said them.
In any event, "Haunted" is lovely and artful; possessing a somewhat eerie ambiance nicely suited to the subject.

[MOON]

Thanks Frank wise words, some can't forget the past it haunts!

[Dream Weaver]

"Haunted" As so many lives are, this was an intriguing read...
So descriptive I could not avert my eyes. Loved it!

[MOON]

Thank you!
Take care!

[James Hanna-Magill]

Dear Moon

My turn to repay the compliments of your reviews of my writing.

When I review a writer, I have a tendency to pick the piece with the most intriguing title from their library.

That is why I picked this one.

And do you know what that proves?

Titles matter.

A title is often enough to get yourself picked off a bookshelf in preference to anyone else's writing.

As I often say, I read writers' profiles and author's notes before I read and review, but I never read anyone's comments.

I want to address the person and not someone else's views of the person and their writing.

And of course, what do I find with you?

No profile and no author's note to this poem.

You then leave me as with all your readers seeking the meaning, reacting to the piece as individuals; trying to read your mind; but in the end you are testing our minds and seeking to read ours by way of reaction.

Structure: Refined. Five four line stanzas where the rhyming couplets are in strictly adhered to form 'abba' followed by a final two line refrain (?) 'aa'

Immediate reaction? A lot of ingenuity has gone into the writing of this piece.

Language and imagery: Both rich and vibrant. My favourite lifts:

'Take all the shadows off my pristine wall'

'Banish the mirror with its open cracked face'

'Crippled stiletto heels I can still walk tall'

'Now I stand here erect I could paint the stars
Pretend there was a summer never a fall'

'Still on starless moonless nights you will find me
Slowly scratching beneath the surface veneer
All my fleece lined finery can’t keep me dear'

And so to meaning. You obscure.

In the end if I say this too often I will bore. But the art of a writer may at times be compared to that of a painter or a musician.

My endless example. Picasso and his symbolistic art. People used to ask him what his paintings meant. He used to get angry and say 'You wouldn't ask that question about music, so why ask it about painting?'

There is another analogy I am keen on too now on interpretation of art, where the reader is left to think and guess.

And it is the fear of guessing wrong.

The analogy is either we will spot the villain in a police line up or put the innocent behind bars.

Can we ever get it right as readers?

Never.

Only the writer knows all.

The reader may get some, never all in obscurity, but the benefit is he or she is left thinking way after they have read the piece.

In the end does meaning matter?

At times maybe not. Maybe we just choose to use words to paint a Picasso picture where there may be no meaning at all; in this case laying down a feeling in words and not in paint.

And so to meaning: Will I pick you out of a police line up or put you innocently in jail?

You can only ever have any reader's personal reaction (that's what we want after all as writers) and here is mine:

You write. But your mind is too clouded by thoughts. You want to brush it clean, freshen up and start all over again.

The past still haunts you. Indeed it still feeds you. But you are unsure whether you want to let it go or not, whether you will ever be able to, whether you should or not.

You have tried to paper over the cracks of life. You feel wasted and done out. Just wobbling on 'Crippled stiletto heels' though you still try to 'walk tall'

And here apart from the final two lines is the explosion in the reader's face of majestic words:

'Still on starless moonless nights you will find me
Slowly scratching beneath the surface veneer
All my fleece lined finery can’t keep me dear
From the baying voices that won’t let me be'

Appearance and reality. Apparent finery but the endless call of nightmares you still seek to pick at as if at a wound.

And then you deliver your message in your final lines and then at least for me it all becomes clear:

'I can try to run from the thoughts in my head
Too often now I know the past is not dead'

The past is the past. It may be over, but we cannot change it. Time may dull the edge of painful memories, but sadly the world of sleep where we seek oblivion may only toss them back in our face with the cruelty of vivid nightmares.

I have written much about the past, our crimes, our guilt, our shame, its pains.

I have sometimes wished I could go back to a certain point in time and change a decision I made which turned out to be the wrong one.

But in the end, like we all only can, I conclude 'But I can't'

There is only a couple of things we can do in life:

* Learn from our mistakes and put the rest of our painful memories in a box but only take them out to inform who we are or our writing;

* Keep our eyes firmly fixed on the present. That is where we can still make a difference; and

* Keep a present eye on the future, so that as alchemists, we can take the mud of our lives and turn it into future gold.

Not: 'Let me build a gold cage of a thousand forts'

Rather make something into gold but not let it cage us.

My imperfect little reaction and review such as it is.

Please take it in the sense meant.

Well meant, whatever my style of reviewing, useless or useful.

All at times I can do is offer you just one reader's personal reaction.

And as I have found when people read me, at times that is all I need.

If my review is too long, I apologise.

If my review fails to hit the mark, I apologise.

If my review served no useful purpose, I apologise.

But to be contrary, reversing roles, never ever apologise to anyone for anything you write. You have a voice and a right to express it. Use it as you have done here and to hell with it.

The role of a reviewer is different. He or she take an object of beauty and without any talent at all or credentials picks at it as if they think they are God's gift.

At times, in the process of removing small irritating fleas from the piece they review, they kill inadvertently or otherwise the beautiful animal they inhabit.

I assure you I am so far from God's gift, you could not even begin to imagine.

The last time I talked to God, he sent me a letter back saying 'Dear James, I regret to inform you that when I created you, there was a fault in the factory production line. I am therefore having to recall all products in that batch from the shelves.'

I am just waiting for the stamped addressed envelope to post myself back.

With a wry smile

Your friend

James Hanna-Magill

[SyberRose]

Lovely poem and I also liked the form and rhyming scheme...SyberRose

[MOON]

Thank you so much , take care!