radiantfracture (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
radiantfracture) wrote2024-09-28 07:51 am
radiantfracture) wrote2024-09-28 07:51 am
Poem post: Harbinger, by Violeta Garcia-Mendoza
Harbinger
Violeta Garcia-Mendoza
What does it mean that I’ve been dreaming
about sunlight moving through old houses
again? Vine-shadow on wood floors, endless
rooms, the sound of wingbeats without birds.
Pittsburgh wisdom says you need a week in Florida
when you can’t get out of bed. I up or down
my dose of antidepressants when the clocks change.
In the dreams, I wear a white dress, dust dragged
along its hem. The houses are dis-inhabited
but I know I've lived in some version of them.
In real life I try to leave the past empty, open;
a good mother haunts her life only in forward motion.
When the nerves at my right hip shriek down my leg,
I know it means my body needs to stretch.
I should exercise, drink more water, rest—
but I get through winter reading Gothic horror;
I trust myself with only so much selfishness.
In this city, potholes become a sign of character
as much as of neglect. I remind my children all is still well
when the bridges sway. In traffic, we count turkey vultures
circling in the steel gray and call it soaring.
+ + + + + +
This poem came as a prompt in my inbox, and I liked it. The language is quiet; I keep feeling that it might drift towards prose, and then the images will arrest that: "I wear a white dress, dust dragged / along its hem."
I like the play of line breaks: "I up or down / my antidepressants."
I felt this: "I should exercise, drink more water, rest— / but I get through winter reading Gothic horror," only I think if I took up more Gothic horror it would probably improve my winters remarkably.
What do you hear here?
§rf§
Violeta Garcia-Mendoza
What does it mean that I’ve been dreaming
about sunlight moving through old houses
again? Vine-shadow on wood floors, endless
rooms, the sound of wingbeats without birds.
Pittsburgh wisdom says you need a week in Florida
when you can’t get out of bed. I up or down
my dose of antidepressants when the clocks change.
In the dreams, I wear a white dress, dust dragged
along its hem. The houses are dis-inhabited
but I know I've lived in some version of them.
In real life I try to leave the past empty, open;
a good mother haunts her life only in forward motion.
When the nerves at my right hip shriek down my leg,
I know it means my body needs to stretch.
I should exercise, drink more water, rest—
but I get through winter reading Gothic horror;
I trust myself with only so much selfishness.
In this city, potholes become a sign of character
as much as of neglect. I remind my children all is still well
when the bridges sway. In traffic, we count turkey vultures
circling in the steel gray and call it soaring.
+ + + + + +
This poem came as a prompt in my inbox, and I liked it. The language is quiet; I keep feeling that it might drift towards prose, and then the images will arrest that: "I wear a white dress, dust dragged / along its hem."
I like the play of line breaks: "I up or down / my antidepressants."
I felt this: "I should exercise, drink more water, rest— / but I get through winter reading Gothic horror," only I think if I took up more Gothic horror it would probably improve my winters remarkably.
What do you hear here?
§rf§
no subject
'In real life I try to leave the past empty, open;'
And you know why I like this!
no subject
no subject
when you can’t get out of bed.
I find this fragment of snowbird advice poignant, since what with snow disappearing and Florida becoming a hellscape, the tradition is much less common than it was.
I should exercise, drink more water, rest—
but I get through winter reading Gothic horror
reminds me of Jessica Winter's "Sad Music (2020): "I'll make it through by listening to / sad music."
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
rooms, the sound of wingbeats without birds.
{...]
The houses are dis-inhabited
but I know I've lived in some version of them.
I know these rooms.