Poetry Thursday on Friday

This is the third version of Sister. I've started submitting my poetry on Urbis and have gotten a lot of suggestions there that have helped me refine this poem and make it more clear. The original version is here. Any comments or critiques are welcome.


Sister

You crawled inside this empty chest
ten years ago.
You carved a hole within
like a grown-up fetus.


Vascillation sorrow
uncertainty.
I try to speak.
In that forced-closed-throat way
it’s as if my every word to you
were lies.
As if I didn’t know you.


Maybe I don’t.
Really.


I’m not crazy, sister.
You said paranoid.
Imaginations tricking me.
Sometimes I can’t see
Truly
those words of yours
for what
they really
are.
Here is the truth: I am not misconstruing you.


When you were here
in my heart,
in my love,
curled in my belly,
I couldn’t wait for you to speak.
Nearly unbearable that waiting
That looking up for your other muddy shoe to drop.
(Say what you mean. Just speak.)


I hate your silence.
Your punishment for my letting you set up shop in my head.
I loved you as a sister should.


I used to always reach for you.
As if by merely touching you,
like a bleeding woman finally feeling
the hem of Jesus’ robe under her fingers,
I would be healed.
Knowing you were really
there
calming pesky fears of mine
latent and pregnant
now budding
now flowering
a red-blood fruition
of Abandonment.


That gaping hole
bloody in my belly
you made
when you burst from me,
like an Alien in a movie,
leaves me dead-feeling.
Corpse-like.
The only remnants of me
bloody-trailing footprints
shuffling to the tune of a Thorazine drip.


I could hate you so easily.
I could be as bitter as green Persimmons.
Hard-launching words
cruel fast
from ancient catapults.
And they would cut you.
Sister.
To the bone-within-your-bone.


Does this culpa(bility)
torturous-repeat in your brain?
Its viney-creeping-crawl up your spine,
itself curly-que-ing’round
neurons,
axon terminals,
dendrites and
synaptic gaps?


Validation (of pain).
Closure (of love).
You keep from me.
Sisterlove you.
Still.



Go away.

Poetry Thursday

I'm not exactly sure what the prompt is for this week's Poetry Thursday, but from reading some of the other's poems for this week, it seems that it has something to do with math or mathematical proof equations. So, I've posted one of my original fractals to go with my poem today. Fractals are made by manipulating mathematical equations. It was discovered in 1988 that when certain mathematical equations are manipulated in certain ways, that they produced line, color, shadow, etc...

I picked this particular fractal to illustrate my point according to the prompt this week that life is not a linear equation as I spoke about in response to Black Bank's poem I read earlier today in which I realized that in my answer, I figured out what I was going to do for this week's prompt. Weird how that works, isn't it?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




Linear Equations Have Skint Nees
_____________________________

Chubby cheeks
hands
fingers
reaching unsteadily
for whatever is in Eye's and Reach's view.

Watery, drooling smiles when Reach produces SomethingClose
and Happiness ensues.

Cruising, falling, and then again gaitingforwardunrestrained like a babygiant
whose steps shake the foundations of the world.

I learn by stuffing everything into my mouth and making it my own
by slathering it with my slobber.
I learn what things do
which things are for what things
what things are Good
what things are Bad

I gnaw at mylifeeverything
I runfallonmypaddedbutt everywhere I go.
I learn and unlearn
I forget and then remember.

Stove Is Hot
Snow Is Cold
Redfacedangrymad because I yearn; I want and don't get
Smilecolors when I get crayons to draw what I see; my life

With gripcastiron in my slobbery-fist the crayon hits paper
paper crackles
I Like Paper
I Like That Sound
jerkyerratic movements make the lines, shadows, colors, moods of what I see
my life
I Like Crayons
Like Colors
Make Cirles
Yes?
Good
Straight linesbutnowtwisting and abruptly stopping
aboutface making circleswithincircles
then trailing off from redtogreeen, bluetobrown
I Like Colors
Like Crayons

Testing a crayon in my well-experienced-mouth-tester makes it my own
and I stab a furry dot on the carpet
off the paper
I Did Something Different
new vista
new view
my life
Drooling over my fisted crayon
making more fuzzyconnecteddifferent-colored linedots
Mother Is Here
Look What I Made

my padded bottom smacked
no lintyfuzzycolordots on the carpet
stay on the paper

Oh Mother, the paper is old news
old hat
I want the whole carpet
or nothing at all

Socrying I'm put to Bed with wetcrayonhidden halfdisolved in castfistedgrip
Mother leaves me crying in my Bed
my life
I still have that crayon in my wetdrooledon criedon hand

With practiced, fluent movement
I pull myself up on the bars of my Bed
Cruise around to the Other Side
I Make Dots On The Wall
my life
--------------------------------------
© Robyn Fenner

Poetry Thursday

So, I decided after all to participate in the assignment of this week's Poetry Thursday. I wrote the poem below first, but it took me a while to figure out "Why I Love Poetry". So here goes nuthin':

I don't love poetry. It loves me. It's inside me. In every particle; every atom; every electrical impulse of my brain. It loves me and I can only love it back because, like a symbiont, it lives from me and I live because of it. It opens my eyes; opens my heart; makes me realize myself where otherwise I would walk around my life in a daze of not thinking (kind of like when you're in Wal-Mart and unconsciously buying shit you don't need). It's hard to shake that medicated feeling that society wants us to be in. Poetry keeps me sane and I keep it alive within me by opening my veins and letting it bleed from me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Sister
My chest feels so heavy
and yet empty
Like you carved a hole in it.
You crawled in ten years ago and made yourself comfortable
like some sort of grown-up fetus

Vacillating sorrow and uncertainty
My tears threaten to spring forth of their own accord
to demand my attention
I try to speak
but
my throat closes so my voice is forced
as if with my every breath
my every word to you
were lies

It sounds that way, doesn't it?
Like someone who doesn't know you?
Maybe I don't really.
I don't know why you don't love me anymore.

I thought my imagination was playing tricks on me
Paranoid
You've called me that before
Said that sometimes I can't see situations for what they really are
Sometimes I can't
I'm not crazy, sister
I know I'm not misconstruing
you

There are days when I can't function for thinking of you
when you were here
in my heart
curled in my belly
Waiting on you to speak is unbearable
Almost like waiting for the other shoe to drop
expecting it
knowing it's there
but it never comes
And I don't know why I should have to be waiting for
some sort of retribution
from you

I hate your silent treatment
your punishment
I don't deserve for letting you
set up shop in my head
for loving you
as a sister should
unconditionally

Thoughts on a ticker
You know like the one on the news?
run through my brain and tell me
that I'm better off without you
My attempt at self-protection
Haven't done a very good job of that
have I?

If I didn't love you so much
I wouldn't be in so much pain
I need you
Without you
I'm not fully me.

That hole in my heart?
That gaping, bloody hole in my belly
that you burst from suddenly
You know, like the Alien from that movie?
It leaves me deadfeeling
corpselike
bloodytrailingfootprints
as I shuffle to the tune
of a Thorazine drip

I used to always reach out for you
run to you
for support
as if by the act of merely touching you
like the bleeding woman touching the hem of Jesus' robe
it would mean everything
would be ok
that you were really there.
Fearlatent, pregnant with abandonment
growing
now budding
then flowering
a redbloodfruition

Achingsister
Hurtingsister
When did you stop loving me?

I could hate you so easily
I could be as bitter
as green persimmons
I could launch words from those old catapults I built
they would cut you
sister
to the bonewithinyourbone
Can't do it, though
Can't hate you
I can only let you go.

Closure (of love)
Validation (of pain)

Mea culpa, mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.
Can you feel it?
Does it torturousrepeatitself in your brain?
Does it's vineycreeping crawl up your spine
curlyquetwine itself around
the neurons
axon terminals
dendrites
synaptic gaps
Do you function as I do not?

Sisterloveyou
loveyousomuch
goaway
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
© Robyn Fenner

Poetry Thursday

Sleepy
Scarves floating like ghosts
Twirling and twirling
tickling my knees
silken pink slippers
playing gypsy dancer

Gossamer wings to fly and flit
petals waiting on the wind floating softly
fairy boats on the water
dappled sunlight playing warm on white stones
mermaid sunning blue-green wetscales
Ophelia's petal hair singing sweetly siren songs of Secret Gardens
follow Robin redbreast to the iron-keyed door
where swings are twining vines
swallowed in sweet scent
of pollen bees buzzing
Slowly

And Leprechans have houses of gold
where the rainbow ends.
© Robyn Fenner
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I decided to copycat from Gel and podcast an audio of myself reading this poem. I'm a bit nervous. My first time and all. I hope it's ok.

Be forwarned. I sort of sound like a 12 year old girl. I don't think my voice ever made it to puberty. Anyway, this is the audio recording of the poem I wrote entitled 'Sleepy'.





This is where I lived in my mind as a child and even as a teenager. An escape mechanism for the unspeakable things that were being done to me. It was where I would go when my grandfather would molest me. This is where I went during the four times I was raped. It was my refuge after beatings from my parents that were so bad I'd wind up bloody and bruised. My therapist calls it "dissociation" and that most severely abused children have some sort of mechanism they use to dissociate themselves from what is going on around them or being done to them. This was/is my secret place. In my childhood I can't remember living anywhere else.

Poetry Thursday

Schizophrenic God in the Form of Toxic Father Speaks out of Two Side of His Mouth
-----------------------------------------
________________________
His pity
"I love you because you are completely degenerate with no chance of recovery."
His teaching
"I am perfect. Can't you see that? Mold yourself to me to show me that you love me."
His patience
"Your very existence is exasperating to me."
His control
"Be good because I love you"
"Be quiet and invisible, because I don't want to be embarrassed of you."He says
"Don't rock the boat. Conform."
His encouragement
"Of course, I'll always be here for you. Just remember, when you fail
at school
in love in independence of life.
I'll be here for you to remind you
of what a failure you are
because I love you."
His concern
"You know you can't survive for long on your own.
You need someone to take care of you.
You need to get married."
"Don't question me."
Why?
"Because I said so. God wants it that way."
His help
"You live like a pig. You're room is disgusting."
His lust
"It smells like sex in here. Have you been having sex in here?"
"You stink. Have you bathed lately?"
"The dress is pretty, but you look like a slut."
"You are finally growing hips, but your butt is getting bigger."
"Are you sure you're sick? Maybe you're pregnant."
His love
"She's not mine. I picked her up on the side of the road."
_____________
___________________
I hate you.
I love to hate you.
I relish it as if I were eating excellent dark chocolate.
You owe me
Years
My self-esteem
Love
An apology from you for all the times you discouraged me
choked me
hit me
emasculated me
made me feel that my body was dirty and pornographic
made me feel like I would never be good enough for anyone or anything
were silent when you should have spoken words of gentleness
avoided me
were sickeningly arrogant and callous
were unrepentant and unapologetic
didn't take responsibility for your culpability
will never be forthcoming.
I hate you.
The fact that you continue
to breathe
makes me hate you even more
-------------------------
I should have shot you when I had the chance.

© Robyn Fenner
written 2 August 2002
Edited 21 March 2006

~Upon Meditation~4th July-2005

What am I?Don't know.
Christian.

What am I?Don't know.
self-actualized
self-actualizing

What am I?Don't know.
If I say I am a Christian have I categorized myself
right into a little box
tightly bound
sealed with so many lickersticking labels
that you can't even see the box
Even me
Categories.
Everything is categories
thisputtingofthingsinboxes
Naming thingsandpeople
Is it safer that way?
Where is the object of fear?

What am I?Don't know.
Opposites
Everything opposites
goodandbad
beneficialharmful
What is good can be bad
and
the bad good
They are brought into the middle.

What am I?Don't know.
Paul said--Everything is lawful
for mebut
not everything is beneficial.
Yet I will be mastered by nothing.

What am I?Don't know.
Pain
No Pain
The Same
Pain becomes No Pain
I will be mastered by nothing
I think I understandbut
I don't.

What am I?Don't know.
I am happy
But...
All things are impermanent
All circumstances are impermanent.
Rug pulled from beneath me as I fall on my face
Unprepared.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
© Robyn Fenner

~Untitled- 6th October 2004~

Since I completely broke down last night, being caught off-guard by the tsunami of emotions that come this time of year on me like some sort of giant leech which sucks not blood, but all of the hope I thought I had, out of me. I feel it's appropriate to relate this poem I wrote of the fourth and (so far) last time I was raped. Since this was the impetus behind all of my sadness and depression this Christmas season. I tried desperately to make the blows glance off of me and to shoot them at those around me, but y'all know that never works. I realized through a crying jag on Christmas Day (it took me 10 years), that the reason I hate Christmas is because the last rape was either right before or right after Christmas (I can't pin down the exact date in my head. I can't remember it. I just know that about a week or so after that it was New Year's 1997.). So, I have let it spoil and infest everything about Christmas that I once loved and I hate myself for it. More than that, I hate the man who raped me. My faith tells me that I'm supposed to forgive those who hurt me "70 times 7", in other words infinitessimally. I'm supposed to pray for those who hurt me. The Scripture says that if a person doesn't forgive another who has hurt them then the Father in Heaven will not forgive your sins. Can a person forgive another person for what they did, but still hate them? I don't know if forgiveness and hate can go hand-in-hand. Hate the sin, but not the sinner? I hate both. At least with him.

Anyway, enough of me not being able to get over myself right now. It's making my head hurt. Here's my poem (Just in case anyone was wondering I didn't write it right after the rape. It took several years for me to even realize that I had been raped. Some part of me even still thinks it was my fault even though, logically, I know it wasn't. Feelings overwhelm rationality sometimes.):

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's raining

RainingRainRain go away
come again some other day.

It's raining
but the sky is clear
My face is wet
Rain of tears

Am I really here?


Have I just...?

Mirror, Mirror in the car
who is the greatest slut of all?

YOU ARE
YOU ARE
YOU ARE

No I'm not!
I have to pray
a lot
Can't think of what to pray for...
RenounceRepentCry

Why is it still raining?

He said I was beautiful
through the closed door of the bathroom
while I was sitting on the toilet.

That's when it started raining.
And I started to shake as I watched myself in the mirror.
Events replayed
Did I consent?
Why didn't I scream?
Why didn't I struggle?

He said I was beautiful.
He chanted something
while he was inside me

But he said I was beautiful.

Why am I bleeding Why am I so dizzy?
I have to get out of here
but he's standing at the door


"Feelin' Frisky?"


I can't think ---------straight.
I have to go Is this my car Where am I going?

TO CONDEMNATION THAT'S WHERE

Oh God
God whydidyouletthishappentome?

I can't even tell anyone
I tried to ask for prayer but all they said:

If you are having a hard time it's because you've sinned.


YES.
I've sinned.
I'm a sinner.
And I'm still bleeding from it.
He's a sinner too.


And God pulls the strings like the Great Puppetmaster He is.



© Robyn Fenner
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~Untitled-9th September 1999~

Alone..............




Alone





Why am I always







Alone?



When someone is near
I want them to be away
When they are away..........

People are such fragile and contemptuous creatures
Can't trust
might get hurt else
can't love
don't know how
don't

know
what

love

really
means

So many people with broken hearts [me]
that they can't mend [me]
Suffering with insecurities [me]
accosted by the violence
of being alone amongst millions.
© Robyn Fenner

~Untitled~December 14 2006~

My



strasse


is

too


wide
I can never manage to cross it
completely
I try






"There's a fewthang's inthestreet, girl"
it's the little-man-in-my-head
I don't know who he is
never have






He wants to keep me on the curb.
Dammit.
They always move
not like they could ever stay in the same place
Ever
so's I could navigate
My





strasse
without getting my legs knocked from 'neath me.

Y'know that old joke
why the chicken crossed the road?
He only got across because
there were no
pink elephants
in
his strasse.
````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
© Robyn Fenner

The theme this week for Poetry Thursday was to write about streets. I'm not one of those people who can write well about surroundings and such, like what wet streets seem to be-poetically, but what I can write about is what is going on in my head. There's always something or other going on in there. I've been writing about what's going on in my gray matter since I was 14. Honestly, I do, if I want to evolve with my poetry, need to learn how to write in styles different than what I'm used to. You know, step out of the comfort zone. That's what poets do anyway. Right? Make people uncomfortable?

~Untitled- October 11 2006~

Emaciated thoughts
of thorny skeletons
who steal eyes to pretend to be alive.
Marionettes hung with unseen strings
Unaware of the seeds planted
Unknowing of nakedness
Blindsearching for a soul
Fliting jerkily across a life
of torn silk curtains
crumbling plaster
on a ramshackletumbledown stage
Fools fooling no-one.
© Robyn Fenner

~Untitled-29th March 2006~

You'll rescue me.
Right?
From the shadows of myself I creep around in.
You'll tell me.
Right?
How to be like you?
Healthy
Functional
You'll speak to me.
Right?
So these noisy insane voices will disappear?
In the name of Honesty
I am an open book
Laid bare before you
with emotions raw and tender to the touch.
You won't leave me.
Right?
When you find out how crazy I am?
You'll stay with me.
Right?
When I try to push you away?
© Robyn Fenner