the heart laid bare

Archive

No Apology
the thunder
tinder
VERBAL PORTRAIT OF A CAT OWNER
critical shortage
the sky we thought we knew
CIRCA SOLEM
almanac
baby
dearest orlando
FIVE MONTHS
A LETTER TO THE UNDESERVING
cactus heart
would we
the fall of giants
paradise lost
Dad
after you've gone
time
a smile from the eyes
trepidation
why so cold
fix this
swallow me
untitled 8
insular
cry alone
robin
quicksand
laces
D.I.S.C.
stripped
waving goodbye
your open eyes
enemy within
mortal
untitled 4
sleepless
outsider
untitled 9
come dream with me
in the face of adversity
one word
the dark of the night
untouchable
one and one makes two
you burn me
see me
this shaken core
my lover
helen
my room
his words
foolish
rita
chalk drawings
the longest night
stupid skeleton
CLOTHES MAKETH
FIRST LASTS
STELLAR
TODAY
I WATCHED A MAN DIE TODAY
THREE WEEKS
this slippery slope
untitled 5
Arrows
First Kiss
The Talk Of Love
Nicotine
Blackout

Blackout

Blackout.

The music stops, the TV falls silent.
The telephone dies mid-ring.

Someone lights a gas-lamp and places it on the kitchen bench.

The family gathers round - the ones watching TV, the ones cooking dinner, the ones reading outside, the visitors.

We sit around the kitchen bench, forced out of our solitude by the invading blackness.

The evening has stolen the soft light of the early winter day, and as we gather round the gas-lamp like moths to a solitary flame, we talk.

The darkness has drawn us all closer together - we talk and laugh, and share stories.

Then, with a buzzing flicker, the light returns.

The visitors depart, the cooking resumes, the television blares to life. We all return to our separate activities, and we all forget the difference the lack of power makes to our lives, our activities, our relationships with one another.

All, that is, except for me.

© mjc 9 May 1999

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Biography

Daughter, sister, aunt, godmother, friend, public servant; self-confessed hermit, confirmed cat person, sporadic baker, irreformable yarncrafter, voracious reader; occasional wit, voluble shower vocalist, frequent sacrifice on the altar of brain-to-mouth filter fails, random shit-slinger, unrepentant purveyor of puns and dad jokes, writer and poet.

I have always lived by the theory that no matter what you do for a living - if you are compelled to write, if you wake up in the night to scrawl the contents of your dreams on a notebook beside the bed, if no event in your life seems complete without you recording it, if you are drawn to comment upon the world - then you are a writer.

These are my words.