Loneliness

“My loneliness is filled with people,” Kafka states.

 

Loneliness once:

Nighttimes –the worst, amid winter darkness

Days end in haste, day-ends prolong like childhood’s gummy sweets

in the hands of street vendors, looking unkempt, unwashed

lips not even touching the mom-water cup,

yet, devouring in full trust those stretchy rainbow-colored sugar treats

 

loneliness now:

Filled with sounds of indecipherable joy

two person bed in the morning, two person bed at night

Quiet at nighttime but witness to a commotion at dawn

 

the family of birds, greeting each new day, in non-stop frenzy

housed in my bedroom’s right corner window crevice,

frantic back and forth wing-clapping

chirping

twitching

beak-to-wall-knocking

fighting off intruders

 

how many birds were victims to slings of childhood’s neighborhood boys,

wood and ribbon killers of baby aviators

on their way to flying classes

 

loneliness now:

Filled with sounds of indecipherable joy

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A Winter Retreat (on storiesspace.com)

hours of road monotony

the GPS, a self-imposed dictatorship

tired, bored, no more beauty in the snow…

 

then

a private gateway;

a much anticipated spectacle:

The Inn.

 

A compelling magnificence.

No need for a color, a shade, or hue;

a winter embrace of splendor;

the smolder of her fireplace:

 

I feel  home.

 

Spacious beyond the eye’s capacity,

not at all an inn of limits;  

high-risers’ luxury at hand;

many may deem impersonal,

out of futile habit:

This, a B&B?

 

I feel home.

 

Eloquent, the host; the hostess: of elegance.

The puppy –acts like one yet outsizes me.

Struck by grave illness, the eldest feline

each night, in my Victorian space.

She, too, will break hearts, never to replace the pieces.

Just like my Russian Blue, Duman.

 

A mere three days’ span

filled with seeing

listening

inhaling

that authentic self

outside its rushed and rushing

fragmented and fragmenting

judged and judging

tested and testing

shell-self.

 

I am home.

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Sinop (Sinope)

Sinop has always transformed my psyche, taking my innermost self to a place of peace.  Its thought alone from a several-days distance where I live now quiets any turmoil I may feel trapped in at any given time.  Regardless of the “hell on earth” I lived there a short few years ago.  My memory – in harmony with my power of imagination, takes me back to the eight-story apartment building where my flat was.  I haven’t been back since the sale of my home in that land of the sea and the sun.  Yet, I often transit myself out of my bedroom onto the long hallway with a direct passage into my living room overlooking the sea, the Turkish Black Sea, to be exact.  I take in the spectacular view, breathe in freedom and begin my imaginary dance that the sound of the waves accompany.  My kitchen adjacent to my living room waits for me to wake up the various aromatic nuances a region-specific breakfast will lend it soon. Then again, hunger doesn’t visit me that early in the morning.  All of this happens in the memory, after all.  Before the locals get on to their daily routines, I sneak in a walk alongside the sea, all the way to the heart of the picturesque town.  I can almost see my shadow.  I had wished desperately to stay there for years to come.  So I believe to have left my shadow there instead.  I can almost spot my spirit still walking on high heels on the bumpy and hole-rich sidewalks up to and in the “Town Square.”  Selecting fresh fruit and vegetables from each stop, I am gliding in and out of stores and cafes, taking in -with an utterly overwhelmed psyche- everything that my senses can conceive of.  Feeling elated all the time.  Bursting with a yet unmet happiness.  My entire being shouting: freedom!

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From: Morrie Schwartz (1916-1995)

“Death ends a life, not a relationship.” – Morrie Schwartz (1916-1995)

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A poem by Ataol Behramoğlu (b. 1942)

Hayatı ve Eserleri

I'VE LEARNED SOME THINGS

I've learned one thing from having lived:
If you live, you should live it all in full force 
Your beloved should be exhausted from being kissed
You should be exhausted from smelling a flower

One could gaze at the sky for hours
Could gaze at the sea, a bird, a child
To live on earth is to blend into it, with it
To extend indestructible roots into it 

Once you embrace a friend, 
               you must do so evermore tightly 
Should you get into a fight, 
               you must lend it your whole body, your passion
And once you lie on the ever so warm sand
You should let yourself rest like a grain of sand,       
               a leaf, a piece of pebble

One must listen to all beautiful music 
               to the fullest
As though filling your entire being with sounds, melodies

One should plunge head-on into life
As though diving from a rock into the emerald sea

Distant lands should draw you in, people you don't know
You should crave with burning passion 
                to read every book, to get to know every life
You shouldn't exchange with anything
                the pleasure of drinking a cup of water
Yet be overcome with the yearning to live
                All joy that there is

And you should also live sorrow, honorably, 
                with your entire being
For, like joy, the pain, enables you growth
Your blood should mingle in the great circulation of life
Life's endlessly fresh blood should flow in your veins

I've learned some things from having lived:
If you live, you should live with might, 
                As though you are merging into the rivers,      
               Into the universe
For, what we call a human life is a gift given to life 
And life is a gift bestowed upon us

     Ataol Behramoğlu (b. 1942 in İstanbul, Turkey
     (Translated from the Turkish original)

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From: Frances Mayes (b. 1940 in Fitzgerald, Georgia)

Choice is restorative

when it reaches toward

an instinctive recognition

of the earliest self.

                        Frances Mayes, Under the Tuscan Sun

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From: Sue Monk Kidd (b. 1948 in Sylvester, Georgia)

“A worker bee weighs less than a flower petal, but she can fly with a load heavier than her. But she only lives four or five weeks. Sometimes not feeling is the only way you can survive.” – Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

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twinning with Munch – silent scream (Published in Pastiche, the magazine of the OLLI Writers Group and on WritersCafe.org))

onto death, I want to lay the self

my One and Only’s hope eyes erase the bed

before the head makes contact

 

onto death, I want to lay the self

deadlock is all I feel

what have I become?

what, though, had I been?

 

the husband…former already?

weary, distraught, ruined

my One and Only’s sun face takes a shadow now and again

 

it all began with her inside me

love took off to eternity with her every smile

my only precious bond to life

for whom I pushed aside the self

not one small regret

the one for whose hope death does not get me today

 

I made us a home, I glorified it

on my own for long, too long of many years

filling in for all marital lack: a promise is a promise after all!

 

years left, tens of years passed away

multiplied into trying decades

once looked aback, there exists a husband…

my One and Only’s sun face takes a shadow now and again

her graceful, not yet disheartened soul wound up

on the verge of a leap onto her own life

 

but…how about…

 

no, no, not possible!

once my One and Only is no longer home

having set onto her own path

the husband and I…

ways of ours ever so apart

how long, until where?

if the self can remain as self, that is!

 

onto death, I want to lay the self

my One and Only’s hope eyes erase the bed

before the head makes contact

 

onto death, I want to lay the self

deadlock is all I feel

what have I become?

what, though, had I been?

 

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silent scream II (published under the title “the silent wail” on www.storiesspace.com – username: meponis8)

no womb to take your tears to

the hurt, above you – you, only a petite full-grown

from a premature fetal fist – forced to let it lurk inside

the three hundred ninety grams of it all

as well as the mere seven pounds

not once

not twice

nor the nth time but

a content and eternal guest in you

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From: Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)

“You need chaos in your soul to give birth to a dancing star.”

Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)

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