poem: in dampness without

this life we hold:

is not some fair trade shop-

good things will not happen

to the deserving

unless and until you make them

and yes I am pissed off

I seethe with the hidden heat

of the volcanic arc

in my backyard

and burn with the intensity

of the midday sun on rain-soaked

washes and vales.

I am the sum total of things

denied for so long I forgot to ask,

I bristle like a cat stalking its own

territory, pacing, studying

either entrance or exit.

it all gets to me today-

boys robbed of their minds

to shine shoes, beaten

for underselling manipulation

of strangers' compassion;

the calculation of an easy mark,

the invisible tattoo of a dollar sign

on the skin of my forearms;

the slat-ribbed cur with the limp

that will take her life

within weeks, wrestling garbage

from blocked storm drains

the encroaching hardpan

where majestic limbs swayed last summer;

and the stench of raw sewage

wafting through children's street games.

and we are in the good part of town.

and there is me, myself,

slant-wise and otherwise

too often, a pack of crackers,

dollop of refried beans

and sprinkling of cheese

keep one hunger at bay, like today

and nesting a sweater around my shoulders,

my congealed hands wrapped

around a hot cup of weak tea

and too much sugar,

seeking something to nourish

from within while teeth chatter

in dampness without...

gnashing in pain, and,

unbeknownst, with the greater hunger: 

once again, duped.

I am settling for being good enough, for the

one or two time f**k

but not quite for knowing;

or if knowing, never for the taking.

identified, maybe, an easy mark

in ways that rend the soul even

more deeply. disappointment

is as sour as bile in the span

of an unanswered letter

and everything I ever knew of love

I surrendered to in one,

squeezed my heart until it bled out

hot tears of saline and blood and desire

and some mix of things

I do not even recognize as mine.

stained the souls of the five it takes

to fill the space of that one

and I ask, simply, when can it really be

our turn

for any of us who give

exponentially more than we

ever thought to ask?

Author's Note

some days are harder than others

Reviews

[h d e rushin]

I am a purist. I adhere strickly and excessively to a tradition. I believe that each and every word
written and called poetry is purposeful and un-accidental. Try as a person might, you cant
really fake it. It is never an elephant following some vague instructions with a paintbrush. Or
(oh-lord) some chickens with paint on their feet running across a blank canvas. Art? no doubt,
But the intention? The determination? The resolution? Thats where poetry distances itself from
all else alleged and two-dimentional/

I hope living in central america has keep you well, or does the soul of a woman cry out where
ever she appears on this earth? Some days are harder than others....so we take some charge
of our own delinquency...or better put, our own feelings of culpability. If loneliness is the absense
of another humans touch, then I know this loneliness. And it can be a real m**********r. Poetry
is not the proof of anything, but in a crazy kind of way, an indication of everything.

tender, confessional-felt poetry here my friend.
keep writing and stay strong.

dana

[Marie Anzalone]

dana, I cannot thank you enough for taking the time to read this, and leaving such a beautiful review for me. To answer some of your questions (spoken and unspoken): I beleive that lneliness affects us on all levels of human connection; physical, yes; but also intellectual, spiritual, emotional. And trust me when I say that being in a place that reminds me every day how much I will never belong; makes me feel the bite of all levels of loneliness even more. Not just a m**********r... to quote some other culture I do not recall, "grandfather-f****r," too. Lonely enough to compromise what is important sometimes for said human touch, increasing the loneliness on some of the others, maybe? I was told today, by someone who should know better, that women really should sit back and wait passively for what they want to come to them... and not ask for their needs to be met, just accept what life gives them and remember to be thankful for the crumbs. I felt my throat constricting; his words a death sentence prolonged over alifetime of swallowing rage and desire and loneliness and grief and every othe rdamned thing that makes us human. I told him I did not want to be more, but that I do demand to be treated as equal to a man... and was told that that is impossible. Coupled with a dropped soul connection and intesne professional rejection this week, I am surprised that this poem did not coem across as borderline suicidal. But, like you, my dear heart, I march forwards, hoping for better days.

I lost my house today.

[W.k.kortas]

I'm going to paraphrase something the novelist John Gardner once wrote...we will all, perhaps instinctively, try to rush at some unseen enemy who threatens those or those things we hold dear, and most times when we leap at that assailant, there is nothing there, and we simply fall to the ground in some rodeo-clown pratfall--and yet, knowing full well the likely result, we do it again and again. It's a daunting and too often too sad prospect, and it's an awfully damn hard thing to draw clean lines around. This piece reflects the struggle intself and the messiness of trying to fit the whole damn fight into a box. It's sprawling, certainly, and perhaps a bit messy in spots--but, as the wise dana and Diego have said before me, it's heartfelt and truthful stuff, never resorting to shrieking or histrionics. The attempt to chronicle this battle, quixotic as it may be, is noble enough; to do it this well just that more so.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you very much, kortas for your insightful and honest review. I wonder if we can ever, as writers, do away with awkwardness altogether? Maybe those who write with surgical precision and the aestetics of austerity for austerity's sake. I always felt that kind of writing was more suited for the boardroom than real life, though. Me, I agree with Bolano about those who dare to sprawl, to be imperfect... writing our Moby Dick while the worls prefers something less... "messy." But there you have it. I imagine that lamost everyone who commented on this piece understands messiness and the value of the imperfect reaching. Sometimes, though, it is not just shadows that we jump at, but fears that been made flesh and blood and claws and teeth... usually, but not always, thrugh our own efforts.

Much appreciate your stopping by, my esteemed literary friend.

[Horizon K.]

Once you have loved a universe, as a universe, how could you ever go back, to simply loving stars? I see that grasp for survival here, for anything else to fill the empty spaces created, once it is known there is so much more, once you have tasted true love-- the world's greatest passion... A gorgeous poem, Marie. My heart breaks , just to read this, and those final stanzas, just burn...

[Marie Anzalone]

Indeed, Horizon, and even more... once you have swallowed a universe, how then can one return to a sense of fullness when it is taken away? There are some spaces human souls were never meant to endure... and yet we keep pushing them to do so. Auschwitz. Somme. Bagdhad. Syria. The loss of a child. Then loss of a soul mate. A soul mate at arm's length, for life. and a lot of stuff in-between, I would venture.

I so appreciate your review. and YOU.

[Tree]

I'll try to piggy back off what Dana has alluded to. That there is no loneliness like that of the soloist, someone who has turned their back on the human connection, or, has had a back turned on them. But we keep playing music, keep, listening to the music of others. I know both of these well, intimately, really. And sadly I'll admit it, I've learned to be alone, have even come to like it. In truth, some of the best things I've ever written were written under the influence of a deep, blue reverent loneliness.. I know there will be a time soon I'll come to regret it, this love, of invisibility, that has allowed me to observe, purely, and though I know its not enough to justify not participating in the act of true intimacy, whether intentionally, or unintentionally, it does give you perspective... But you have to have had at least engaged fully in the act of love before, you, have to know where to point that azimuth. You have to know those roads, traveled that high that heartache. This was a great poem, Marie, and maybe because I'm the type of writer who embraces hardship/solitude in order to come home with the poem, that I can say, without any hesitation, I know exactly the place this poem was born; and though I'm not in that place now I know I'll probably be there again, soon. And I'll write a thousand poems when I get there.



An excellent piece, Marie.

[Marie Anzalone]

Ah, Diego... your review touches some very deep place of insecurity, and then gives me the courage to let it speak without shame. It is a dichotomy, isn't it? That on one hand, to hone ourselves as artists, we require such deprivations and hard times... and on the other hand, as humna beings, we require some level of human intimacy. Alas for me, I tend towards the ones most in need from having known too much solitude. Not for a rescue, but for believing maybe that only one such could truly love one as broken inside as I can be. And that probably sets me up for more failure. I do not reach out often, but when I do, I am sure of my decision... and also hopeful. Not expectant, but hopeful. Each rejection feels like another lash on a place in my chest that has already been whipped until tender. And then I try to put on a smiel and keep going, not show it. It bleeds out sometimes in my poetry, all that withholding and denying. And trying to keep optimistic, and believe in a future that some days I simply cannot see any more. I would draw it if I could, but I forgot what color is soul need anyway? Gold? Black basalt flecked with veins of quartz? The color of the sky at sunrise? Or maybe we come full circle, and find ourselves lying on moss, remembering how we tried, as children, to be giants in our own world because we felt so msall in our parents'?

[K. Louis]

I have found the days I am most in love are the ones with no expectation. This was beautiful, and passionate. Well done Marie.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you for the thoughts and review, K. Louis.