the heart laid bare

Archive

the curse
Under seige
Beyond the blues
Introspect
Balloon
push
a strange distance
SWIMMING ALWAYS DOWNWARD
A ONCE-FAMILIAR LANDSCAPE
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

OUTSIDER

Lonely little stick figure,
In stark lines of black and white
You stand, motionless.

You have no hands.
Just empty arms that trail off and go nowhere,
Ending unceremoniously at the base of your wrists.
So you couldn’t reach up
Or pat a shoulder in consolation
Or caress the cheek of someone dear.

And you cannot move ahead or run back to places familiar;
You have no feet.
Rooted to the same spot for eternity, the same position,
Caught in the same net of lines on paper.

I wish I could tell what you’re thinking
But your face is carefully blank.
I cannot even see if you are looking at me or away.

There you stand, a scrawl in the margin –
The page numbers in a newspaper.
Neat and tidy, black and white.
You sit on the sidelines.
And you say nothing.
A pastiche of a person,
Like you had been scratched in lead pencil by a mischievous teenager
Onto the ceiling of the Sistine.
 
Colourless,
Motionless,
Utterly, utterly out of place.

 


© mjc 18 January 2013

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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, 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.