The Art of Poetry

Part Two

Suzannah Tarkington    

 

       

Invisible

Though the world around me seemed to be slowly changing

I felt stagnant.

The wind didn’t blow my hair like it did before

The cool air gave me no Goosebumps

The dark of night did not impair my vision

While relatives died and newborns opened their moon shaped eyes

I didn’t flinch.

I heard the beat of my heart and felt the pulse in my veins

The sun rose and set but I stayed

Though I could hear my breath no air came in or out

I withstood the plight of the ever-changing world

I was solid.

I felt no shame or fear or craving

Lost in my own mind

Solitary to the impact of others, I thought

But, when I looked in the mirror I was invisible.

             

     

                                     

 

           

Hole  Again    

I  stand  staring  at  a  wall  with  my  reflection  on  it.  I  touch  the  creases  in  my  face,  the  uneven  brow.  Finger  tips  run  over  one  chipped  tooth,  feeling  

                                                                       Chapped  lips  set  between  a  smile  and  a  frown.                                                                            My  fingers  slip  farther,  behind  the  face.  There,                                                                            I  am  pulled  down-­‐  caught  in  a  battle  betwixt  the    

   Hook  of  judgment  and  the  potent  person  beneath.  Ebbed  along  by  the  soft  words  spoken  by  pursed  Lips  of  mothers  and  politicians  and  priests.  Each  Inspecting  the  wall  I  see  now  in  order  to  fix  what  

Was  not  even  broken  in  the  beginning.  I  feel  how  my      Fist  curls  subconsciously,  slowly  shattering  the  face  I  see  into  

Tiny  pieces,  leaving  behind  only  the  scattered  elements  of  talking-­‐tos,  Sermons,  debates,  rules  written  on  chalkboards  and  memos  marked  in  vibrant  red  

URGENT!      

I  am  alone.      

         I  have  burst  through      

the  seams  of  their  hand-­‐me-­‐downs                        a  size  too  small    

Forged  over  the  mountain  of  presumption                                              where  was  I  headed  again?    

Oh,  but  how  nice  the  breeze  feels  through  the  hole  in  the  wall  of  my  chest          

         

 

                                         

                 

       

   

“Home  is  Where  the  Heart  is”      

She  lingers  on  the  old  wooden  front  porch,    

Looking  at  the  door,  which  leads  to  the  kitchen  where  she  cooked  with  her  mother.  Her  cheeks  flushed  with  flour  and  fingers  stained  chocolate  brown,  little  hands  were  

guided  carefully  through  thick  sticky  sweet  dough  and  wiped  on  a  red  apron.    

The  door  behind  which  the  yellow  living  room  carpet,  stained  with  TV  dinners  and  soccer  field  dirt,  became  the  setting  for  giant  Christmas  trees  surrounded  by  poorly  

wrapped  gifts  and  noisy  children.    

The  door  that  enters  to  the  basement  where  lazy  summers  were  spent  escaping  the  blazing  southern  heat,  girls  entangled  in  yellow  terry  cloth  towels  over  stripped  two-­‐pieces  eating  sandwiches  and  sipping  fresh  lemonade  through  curly  straws.  

 The  door  leading  to  the  bedroom  where  the  plush  purple  carpet  held  the  weight  of  her  world,  objects  collected  and  stored  on  shelves  to  help  her  remember  the  times  

when  things  seemed  effortless.      

The  door  that  opens  on  to  the  seldom  used  sitting  room  where  her  parents  told  her  about  their  newly  decided  split,  her  back  being  rubbed  and  hand  held  till  it  turned  white.  No  tears  shed,  just  “For  Sale”  signs  planted  and  white  walls  painted  blue.    

 The  door  where  her  childhood  formed  and  fizzled  

And  from  which  she  now  turns  to  face  the  rooms  of  another  house  in  another  town  where  another  family’s  memories  once  were  made.