You knew me when I was beautiful.
I don’t want you to see me now.
I don’t want you to walk away tsking,
the pity—
“Not even thirty yet, and already gone to seed.”
Or worse,
Thanking your lucky stars that things never
Went that far between us,
Thanking God that you didn’t get stuck with me.
And I can’t run after you explaining.
The scars you can’t see under my clothes,
The medications that took my shape,
Once finely wrought as headless winged nymphs
on museum steps, and left me a slab.
Stretch-mark cracked skin
flakes in mother-of-pearl-like layers,
incandescent white as an arsenic nurse
come to minister her proxy.
Black cavitied teeth shadow Yorick yellow skull.
Red lacework of eyeball veins tell tales
of the long-shuttered days.
Now I shrink from light
and your crucified form,
arms stretched toward me,
faltering.
Disbelieving.
You can’t know of the thousand nauseous nights
that dried me out. I had to cut off my hair
like a penitent, so I have nothing with which
to dry your feet.
I want to tell you. Getting out of bed every day
with pain tugging me back downward
like a john determined to get his money’s worth
Left me no time for trifles like mascara and styling gel.
It was an act of domestic triage.
I was too busy binding all the wounds,
stopping up unspeakable seepages.
That girl you knew—I had to let her go
To save this other. She might look
like a ruin to you.
And she is. Like those Vietnam vets you see
Who have hysterical crying fits when they see
A dog get hit by a car. That’s me now.
Hysteria is a word
that once belonged only to women.
It doesn’t take much these days.
Even though the root organ is lost
it’s easier than ever to succumb to its spell.
You might wonder where the pretty one went.
Well, I checked all the boxes and signed all the forms.
I committed her to a steel barge manned
by a fleet of rubber-gloved Charons.
Believe me, they took their fare.
Here’s a copy of the patient privacy agreement,
so I’m afraid you can’t see her.
But somewhere inside here, I think,
These things belonged to her.
My guts feel loosely piled
like the colored shards lying on the bottom
of a child’s kaleidoscope. I have no resistance.
So let me distract you.
Shake me up. Prismatic entrails
rattle to form spectacular patterns of color.
Second-hand and plastic.
I’m pretty sure they aren’t the ones I was born with.
So instead of hiding from you, why don’t you just go ahead
And pretend you don’t me.
Pretend you don’t know
The sobbing, slightly fat, oldish,
youngish woman on the street
in bad clothing and flat shoes.
You thought I was someone else.
You were right.
Let's just leave it at that.
Author notes
My thanks to Dave Ochs, for once again nudging me to cut loose a little. Dave, there's a lot of your style in this too.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 15 of 15
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Very stirring
Wow... there is so much that strikes me in this poem. To begin with, the flow and rhythm of it makes it work. It was a reall asset to the poem as I was reading it. Each line easily rolled into the next, but they all remained distinct from each other. Having constructed it in such an effective way, I was then able to sense so much feeling in this. Not only loss and despair, but a sense of anger, too. There seems to be a bitterness in the speaker's tone, but this anger is directed more at the self than anyone else. Almost limke a masked expression of guilt and shame. There is a lot of very strong language in here, even individual word choices such as "mother-of-pearl", "penitent", and "shards" seemed carefully placed and I loved the image of the kaleidoscope. It was quite powerful and an enjoyable read. Nice job!language: 5, rhythm: 5, subject: 4, tone: 4, form: 5.
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Hi, Mark. Thanks for reading and finding something to admire in this vitriolic rant. Sometimes a person just has to get it off their chest.
Pie
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Hey CP
I personally became really depressed while reading this, which I would say is a testament to your skill. The ending for me was perfect, I know how it feels to just wish the person you used to know or be friends with, wouldn't notice you. Or as you said think you were somebody else. I also agree with what Al said. This piece is full of that "How To Look Good Naked" show's attitude. They are right, it's all about esteem and how you carry yourself. It's about what's inside that matters, at least to the people that are wise enough to realize this. This of course takes time and experience, it's just one of those things I think people must learn upon their own time, and in their own way. Liked the style and the form. I thought it was well written.
TTYL
MM
language: 5, rhythm: 4, subject: 5, tone: 4, form: 4.
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Hi, MM. Thank you for reading and taking the time to comment. This poem is not my usual voice, style, or character. But I have just gone through a major illness that has ravaged my looks and my psyche, and then I ran into an old acquaintance who was quite shocked by my appearance. It hurt. But one can't very well go around blurting out their entire gruesome medical record, can they? So I wrote this.
No one seems to be catching the point that the effects of the illness is what makes me feel so unattractive-- not the "How to Look Good Naked" problem of thinking that I must look like Gwyneth Paltrow in order to be sexy. I merely want to look healthy again.
Perhaps I did not do such a good job on this after all. Ah, well. Writing this poem was an act of pure selfishness-- it's not something I'd ever submit for publication.
Thanks again for the read. I hope to return the favor soon.
Pie
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hi lauren
thanks for mentioning me in the authors notes but I'm not worthy, if i could see you i would bow to your artistry and beauty.
i think women get a real raw deal that all the eggs are placed in superficial basket of surface looks and subject to terrible judgements, why did she let herself go? ignoring the more complicated female system and not to mention having children.
i work with a women whose so one demensional, working out and fixing herself up, while her mind goes underdeveloped as well as zero personality and has reduced herself as a thing you'd like to fuck and get the hell away from.
anyway this was tremendously powerful and must be published in multiple journals for others to see.
in the meantime i hope you continue to write beautiful poems like these and hold your head high.
dave -
Hey you know, pie
as I read this I couldn't help but be drawn to associate this work to one I read of brandons' about two months ago about an affair. The poem has the character looking in through a window of his home from outside as he smokes beneath a street lamp and muses on the affair he's just had. He mentions something about soaps and perfumes and such and how he misses that as he muses about the whys of his actions. I recall the whole feeling very well and this poem of yours just seemed to dovetail right into it. Did his work inspire you? I had the thought and just had to ask.
As for the poem, brilliant in the terrible dullness and drudgery it portrays. It depressed the hell outta me as I saw this forlorn woman bereft of any self esteem and gutting herself of any shred that might remain. This is such an apt analogy in today's world of edited-to-perfection fashion models. My wife and I were talking the other day about this gay dude that has this show "How to Look Good Naked" where he takes these older and fluffier women and rejuvenates their self-esteem. So much of a woman's appeal is in how she carries herself. I've seen some smokin' older ladies, I've seen some smokin' plus size ladies and what radiated most from them was how they carried themselves, how they esteemed themselves. This gay dude would take these ladies and force them to look at their figure in underwear and then ask them to tell him what they liked about themselves. They destroyed themselves with the same kinda talk you have here. Then, he asked them to list what they liked about themselves. They didn't have nearly as much to say. Then, he proceeded to complement them as they perked up and beamed. Then, he blew up their underwear pictures to huge billboards and put them on the street with their heads covered and proceeded to ask passing men their opinions. The men complimented the shapes of these women that so earlier had been hating on their forms. All of this was recorded on video and shown to these women. Again, they beamed and perked up. Anyway, the gay dude proceeds throughout the whole show reinforcing these women in a positive self image. At the end of the process he showed before and afters and the difference was remarkable. They were still the same women, but so much more attractive with their newfound or rediscovered esteem. Our esteem is so much a part of what we project to the world. I'll tell you what, pie. I think SuperNanny is smokin'. She's fluffy but she's hot. She radiates a kindness and firm control that is wonderfully appealing.(my wife knows I dig SuperNanny. She's OK with it as she's reasonably sure I'm not going to run off with her anytime soon.) Anyway, my point is that age doesn't have to be the drab fact I felt beaten with here. This poem depressed the Hell outta me as I am aging the same as this unfortunate women you write of in flat shoes. Daily, I gotta bolster my wife against the rampant attacks of beauty mags with their bogus perfection. My wife is regularly hit on by very young men and yet still she obsesses. It's farcical. Anyway, this depressed the Hell outta me. My wife will never see this poem. Women have enough to deal with without this malarkey. What are you trying to do to your sisters, pie?
I was very depressed by this poem. As an angsty rant it was horribly depressing. I'd give it high marks for that reason in your capacity to garner emotion, but I like encouraging poems. Sorry.
al -
can't believe this is 1st person...
Naah... I'll pretend I don't know you, got to be somebody else. Some really startling images here, my favorite is "...pain tugging me back downward/ like a john determined to get his money's worth." Similes like this and unadorned metaphors are some of your real strengths, I've read so many of yours that are surprising and genuinely shocking. Putting her on the barge is a deft touch and the stanza ..."somewhere inside here..." I think is the strongest and most cohesive part of the poem. A clear, unvarnished look at the inevitable proces of aging. How a bout a poem from when you were 16? Cheers - MJ -
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Thanks, Richard, for putting up with this little self-indulgent ditty of mine. I may actually still have poems from when I was 16-- I'm a poetic pack rat. But I'd be too embarrassed to post them! LOL.
Lauren -
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No no, not one you wrote at 16...
one from now about then. You can do it. MJ
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A very dark write Pie, but extremly well written.
Flowing brilliantly, I had awesome strong words jumping out at me, expressing deep emotion.
A very captivating dark awesome write to me
Cindy
language: 5, rhythm: 5, subject: 5, tone: 5, form: 5.
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Thanks, Cindy. It's always good to hear from you.
Pie
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Dark, very dark, deep dark reflections in a mirror whose awful truth can't be denied - "the pity" of what's seen, what's happened. This dagger-probe, down, down into the body and soul of the poet is almost overwhelmingly dramatic, not only within the poet but outside of her, all the peopled feelings of reactions to what she now is, contrasted sadly with what she once was, what a "pretty one" she's horribly had to leave behind. Strong stuff here, cpie, lined out piece by piece into high theater, ironic theater: "Quality of Life" as a mockery. For me, this is one of your most dramatic pieces, an Elektra in absolute desperation and ultimate apathy: "Let's just leave it at that."
Well, it's possible - a mere thought - that it all might try too hard, that it slips occasionally from tragedy to pathos. I hate like hell saying that about such a powerful poem, Lauren, but it's what I feel here. I wonder, in other words, if the self-lacerations go on too long in the middle of the poem, so that it begins to stretch pity too far out - I'm thinking of the 5th, 6th and 7th stanzas, perhaps so over the top that the poem begins to lose its ability for catharthis by perhaps too much begging for tears from a reader. But hey, I feel like an ass for even saying that; yet it's how I'm seeing it. Maybe there's too much "cutting loose" with not enough distance from it to cut it a bit?
And yet...its flowing and completely honest images are pure poetry, pure celestialpie. It pulled up my emotions nearly through my skin reading it. For me, it's brilliantly visual, like a film noir. And I just feel like shit to have to say that it might need some cutting, that maybe there's more than one poem in it. Oh well, let me have it, Lauren! Tell me where I've misread and gone wrong. I WANT to be wrong!
Later, Luv...and I will take another look after you slap me around a bit...
Lad
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