Rebecca

Rebecca

I looked at you without breathing
When you told me you loved her, too.
And I gagged when I smelt her
The smell of her on your twice-kissed lips
When I kissed them, too
(I have always choked on perfume).

I thought, this is a cheery commotion!
There’s peace within it; it is peace.
A crystalline hush,
I pluck it from the air like static teardrops
Halting the restless messy choices
Halting everything.

You always loved me as if you might lose me
Your cries at night crossing continents –
You were a magnificent lover.
This loving her (too) is far from monstrous –
It’s you, darling. It’s you.
So why would anyone expect me to leave?

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Unconditional Love

Unconditional Love

I loved you
without condition’

you said; ‘suffering
your every demand

for a sweeter life’.

‘Each breath I took
I took for you’.

Did you stop breathing
I wonder

When I left you?

Extraordinary

Tonight I’ve been watching the most spectacular women perform quite the most spectacular performance poetry. You can see them on youtube: http://www.filmsforaction.org/articles/six-incredible-female-performance-poets-spit-rhymes-of-reason/

I was overwhelmed. I came face to face after all these years with the spectre of my own utter inadequacy.Again. So I’ve written a poem about a memory I have of feeling inadequate in much the same way in the face of being told how talented I was.

It’s a totally inadequate poem. I don’t care. And I love it because it is.

 

Extraordinary

I remember now. There is a story I can tell.
There is something special about me. I do have something to say.
I can fabricate it. At least I have that.

I remember how they would ask me: What’s your story?
How come you’re so good at this?
Who is your family?

Wealthy immigrants? Left-wing activists? Old money?
Did they escape Auschwitz? Write pamphlets?
Innovate? Dream? Know someone? Anything?

We are nothing, I would say.
We are a very ordinary family.

I don’t know why I have this gift you value.
I don’t even know what it is.
If it’s mine.

And now I’ve lost it all.
I have nothing left but my son.
He has it all. He is it all.

He is the magic.

A few words on “being enlightened”

A few words on “being enlightened”
(for my sister)

“I have the answer”, I say
to the room of Enlightened Souls.

They are rowdy
with chatter and acclaim

we seek
we find
we know

Like blushing piglets running in circles
fussing over oats too plentiful
for gain.

I am offering nothing
but words –
daily babble thick with abandon

the code a lure;
some master’s labyrinth
without prize or solution.

And yet, the gathered minions
with opened eyes now
Rejoice and grow

Asking, on the train home,
how much should I be charging now per hour?

 

© Suzy Gordon 2012

All rights reserved

Thunderstorm

Thunderstorm

We sit on the front deck when the rains come
All a slather.
A watery frame in which we wash

– arms, brows, backs –

It reminds me of that clamorous hush
when the snowdrops crown
and I hold my hand up
to trace the condensation

Hoping this glassy relief
will vanquish the cold
once and for all.

It is the end of a long winter in the north.