Archive for April, 2012

These eyes won’t help me anymore to see

These eyes won’t help me anymore to see
what lies ahead of me, nor what has been.
For good my sight has done away with me.

Now clouds have come here so relentlessly,
I see what darkness from this day might mean.
These eyes won’t help me anymore to see.

I moved around not knowing I was free,
in all my days was so much to be seen.
For good my sight has done away with me.

I once saw ships above a golden sea
and flowers, colours in a meadow’s green.
These eyes won’t help me anymore to see.

My eyes have left me dead, relentlessly
as cold as part of some bewitched machine.
For good my sight has done away with me.

I close them now and let the darkness be
a place awaiting death, while in between
these eyes won’t help me anymore to see.
For good my sight has done away with me.

This poem is about my own fear of losing my sight (it is not so good at the moment) . After reading “Don’t go gentle into that good night” by Dylan Thomas, I wrote this, then looked up what kind of form it was (villanelle, I should have remembered) and found out Dylan Thomas wrote the poem because his father was turning blind. I hadn’t realized that it was about going blind too. 🙂

The origin of mermaids

Every month we women watch
our blood flush down the toilet
into the sewer on its way to the sea,
carrying the unused egg,
and we hope it will find a mate,
a sperm that escaped the laundry.
We give them our blessing,
we send them our strength.
Making mermaids is done like that.

Floating marigolds

My mother’s family had always lived on water
sailing from port to port, working, eating, sleeping
between sea and sky, or giving birth
on a rocking vessel
in the scent of tar and salt.

They never had much knowledge of earth
but once living on land my mother grew marigolds.
She was happy with them
till drunken vandals took them out
and threw them in the harbour.

A man later told us he had seen the flowers
drifting off to sea. Little orange dots
that tried to keep floating.
Watching my mother cry, she and I both knew
some flowers never make it ashore.

Where warmth now lies

How grim are times at times
when all is black and white
and greyish, so much grey.
In time, after some time,
a less cold sepia will grow
inside the memory,
where warmth
now lies.


One white wall seems all that is left of the world now,
you’re facing it all day long, all night long, and no
spiders here to entertain you, alone with the wall you are,
while your blood is making slow rounds through your veins.
Can you hear it crawl? You and the wall are the world now.

Lost in the now

In past I dwell as I feel lost,
through lanes of memories I go
away from all that is the now.
With much, too much forgotten pain
my place is in the cellar of my mind.

I now am archivist who works
in underground and moldy rooms
where daylight never comes to me.
I place the files on rolling shelves.
Don’t try to find me, this is home a while.

NaPoWriMo Waiting for the right time we die

Waiting for the right time we die.
Bridges are not built, hands not reached,
the moment doesn’t come,
procrastinated in eternity
we die and all is too late.

To see the truth

From eyes to my mind
there is time
for correction.
This is not the truth,
two perspectives
melting into compromise.
A Cyclope doesn’t lie.
An eye for an eye
comes to mind.
There is time
to find truth
before I put on
my glasses.

NaPoWriMo – Scandinavian Summer

I found a note the other day
that made me think of piles of hay
and Summer, how it was when you
and I were children, going through
some phases in our lives that year.

The hay you lifted in the air
made rain that sparkled everywhere.
We didn’t mind our nudity.
You wrote a note you gave to me,
some phrases in our lives that year.

The note proclaims your deepest love,
‘t was something we knew nothing of,
we were just children playing games
with what we saw. We had no names,
for days as in our lives that year.


Black is the absence of colour,
yet, if I use all my crayons,
I get the darkest black.

We need a satellite to communicate
though you are sitting beside me.
Is our love on the same wave length?

If I count all my blessings
I am lacking one on the list.
Or two, three. I wish I couldn’t count.

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