Familiar

I don't feel safe anymore. Like, I know rationally,
I'm okay here, nothing ever happens here,
things are all right here. But then part of me thinks,
what if, say, the roof cracks and caves in on my head,
or I fall and I can't move and no one ever finds me,
or there's an outbreak of some new disease,
and I'm susceptible, just for no reason,
just because of who I am? And it's all I think about now.
Like, whenever my mind happens to go blank for a moment,
then I get so scared, without warning, just out of the blue.
And I almost can't stand it, like it's always
verging on unbearable. Like I'm always
this close to totally breaking down forever.
And I wish I could fix it, or do something about it, anything,
if I could reach my hand into my insides and
move them around, to try and relieve the pressure,
or if I could take my brain apart and lay it out
and look for the dark spots, and cut them away,
like using a butter knife to slice the bruises
from a banana. And I keep asking myself,
Why is this happening to me? Why is it happening now?
I don't have any of the answers to these questions.
I don't the answers to anything. I mean,
what do I know, even? Who am I to say
that I'm safe here, or that it's gonna be all right?
Who ever knows that? And how do they know it?
And how can I ever know that? How?

romance dreams

I listen to the mail truck driving away,
a little sad, and fold my hands,
give a little smile. My friend smiles back
knowingly. We both know what it's like
to sort of be in love with someone, then
listen to them drive away every night
with no gesture of returned affection.
To see them every day, support them,
become vital to them, even, when
the time requires it. To see them
bravely defend you with no inch of give.
And then they leave.
Behind me, outside the loading bay,
I hear an engine idling. But my eyes
stay firmly glued to the riveted floor.
I do not dare look for fear of having
all my fallen-in hopes erased.
But I see my friend staring past my shoulder
so at last I turn and look.
And it's him.
Returned, for some reason.
He leans out the mail truck door
and smiles at me, and I lose myself a little.
And then he is suddenly very close to me
but it is fine. It is all fine.
Being so comfortable with each other.
Content to do the depending this time.
And being absolutely sure
that this is it.

(in sum: after having terrible dreams forever, I FINALLY had a happy dream. A romance dream, to be exact.
Too bad it would also have made good fanfiction material. I don't know where that came from lol.)

The Sigh

(note: I wrote this based on a piece of music by Schubert, and based on the "sigh" motive in classical music, which is a downward half-step used to symbolize sorrow but often creepy-sounding when used in dirges like Bartok did. That should provide some context, as well listening to the Schubert piece, which is here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fKVnL9JvuO8 )

Schubert takes his time returning home,
pausing, and it's not that he enjoys the pain
again, but that he cannot not remember.
As his eyes lift, he feels his throat drain
slowly, feeding the little pit of terror
in his gullet. Frozen, struck suddenly dumb,
he wheels backwards a little, deafened,
still turning, still moving, but troublingly numb.
Upon finally reaching his home, he sits
at the piano, to write. His fingers trace the keys.
But the note is too jarring. He slides down, startled,
and that's all he hears. No more melodies.
Nothing but this figure, the simple half-step,
creeping like a ghoul in his ear. The sigh.
He tries to move away from it, leaps a third,
but again the note falls, a drawling cry,
settling deeper now, digging itself a den.
Panicked, he stumbles to his feet and out the door,
needing to escape, but his head falls and falls,
half-step by half-step, then the diminished four,
lurching him off-balance and pulling him back down.
Suddenly he finds himself there once again,
where his eyes lift and his throat drains, but here
there is another, and he can't remember when
the last time was he saw another person, but now
he sees a man, weeping openly in the street.
Schubert steps closer to glimpse his face,
but a terrible sight —this man is me!

The same pale face! The same brown hair!
The same dark expression, the same despair!
The ghoul is clawing and wailing and sighing,
its sermon unearthly and its hymn undying.
He screams out, "Who are you? And why are you here?"
He swallows his nausea, but chokes on his fear.
Collapsing, he clutches at paving-stones
but can feel the ghoul taking his breath and his bones.
His ears, he is sure, are useless by now.
By degrees he feels himself sinking down.
The doppelgänger, meanwhile, lifts its socket eyes,
opens its rotted throat — and sighs.

Always There, Never Going Away

Hyperaware of how my legs move too fast and
the awkward fit of my clothes.
Tapping absentmindedly to reassure myself of permanence,
exhaling in a rush of humpbacked relief.
Yet permanence still drags my bones to ground.
The last few years braided and pinned down my back.
I would cut them off and lose my strength,
but even now am not strong enough to wrench shut the shears.

Two Poems by Richard Wilbur

"The House"

Sometimes, on waking, she would close her eyes
For a last look at that white house she knew
In sleep alone, and held no title to,
And had not entered yet, for all her sighs.
What did she tell me of that house of hers?
White gatepost; terrace; fanlight of the door;
A widow’s walk above the bouldered shore;
Salt winds that ruffle the surrounding firs.
Is she now there, wherever there may be?
Only a foolish man would hope to find
That haven fashioned by her dreaming mind.
Night after night, my love, I put to sea.


"A Measuring Worm"

This yellow striped green
Caterpillar, climbing up
The steep window screen,

Constantly (for lack
Of a full set of legs) keeps
Humping up his back.

It’s as if he sent
By a sort of semaphore
Dark omegas meant

To warn of Last Things.
Although he doesn’t know it,
He will soon have wings,

And I, too, don’t know
Toward what undreamt condition
Inch by inch I go.