2002-01-09 - 12:12 AM
The Star-Fiery Rite Of Night
"Goodness was / a fever in you. Anyone
might glow in the heat of it, / go home comforted--
for them a shawl, for you / fire at the bone.
You knew / more than was good for you. / Your innocence / was peat-bog water, subtle and dark, / that cold it was, / that pure.
Kindness--didn't we act as though / we could cut an endless supply from you / like turf from a bog?
Smoke of that empty hearth / fragrant still. / Your words / cupped in our hands to drink. / But you-- / you're gone and we never / really saw you."
- Missing Beatrice by Denise Levertov
Interesting piece of work by Levertov. I was just compelled to type it out for my online readers' enjoyment. I love the opening lines, "Goodness was, a fever in you.", for reasons I'm not too sure of. They kind of just, roll off the tongue - plays with my mind, filling me up with something nice, so to speak.
I can feel my French Vanilla losing its warmth, as the surface of the drink sinks and wanders farther away from the darkened ring by the brim. I feel myself sinking down low, down deeper with it. I'm almost gone.
The chill, wafting through the room, is the only thing that's keeping me here. My skin knows it's January; my heart knows it more. I'm sinking even deeper.
My friend has lost fifteen pounds or so, due to nervousness and a low self-esteem. I worry for him, and as commonly so in cases such as this, much more than he does himself. I could cry, but that wouldn't help any.
My brother's brushes with the law, as routine as that for your teeth, have seemingly faded away. This could be attributed to the fact that he has been putting in something that I like to call "The Tell-Tale Effort". Pulling into my driveway, I noticed that my brother wasn't parked in front of the house, as usual, facing the wrong direction. I thought that to be strange, of course, until I peered into my rearview - my brother parked on the other side, facing the right direction.
I woke up yesterday morning, at 5:30 AM. Interesting thing it is, to wake up to the malevolent rancor of screaming and yelling. To hear a family at the top of their lungs, is a sound that I wish I could deal without. I squeezed my head between my bed and a stack of pillows; I pressed down as much as I could, trying very hard to block out all the noise. The thing is, when you're in that position long enough, you start wishing you'd suffocate. This time wasn't any different. I was hoping I'd pass out. I was hoping that I wouldn't see that lightened darkness of shut eyelids anymore. I was hoping it'd fade to the pitch black of sleep, eternal or not. I was hoping, like I said, to just pass out - and maybe fade away with my brother's brushes with the law.
These are just a few of the things that careen through my life, leaving behind bricks and slabs, building parapets of stone that wall me in. They run in and out of my life like a fist pounding into a pool of water. In and out. In and out. Submerge and emerge, only to submerge again. I want the water to run through these ocean inlets, once more. They've been dry for so long - I wouldn't be surprised if they've forgotten the sweet taste of it all.
I want to feel like I have life again. I want something more real. More true.
My mug has gone cold. I must've blinked too long.
"And with the night, scarred by broken stars, I feel my tears begin to fall." -Me
