mama, i did not rage
when the light died –
i died with it.
i died with it.
a thousand deaths have
taken place inside me
and i don’t yet understand
how i am still here,
living.
when the light died,
mama, i died too.
not even a flicker left,
i was extinguished from
the inside, total darkness
in my every room.
this world is cruel,
you taught me, and i
learned that early,
and during,
and after, and
again and again.
repetition, always –
the message sticks,
the message always the
same.
i did not rage, mama,
or i did, but
it made no difference.
i did not rage,
or i think i was rage,
and then i vanished.
a big bang, and after,
not a new world but
darkness.
the light is dead, mama,
or is dying,
and there was nothing
and there is nothing i
can do.
the light is dead, mama,
and i think i might be too.

So good at silence now,
I stumble through the world of the speaking,
a stranger again,
another home to be banished from.
Hard to miss, carrying my
solitude like that.
I know what a strange sight I must be,
a broken and fragile beast.
I know you’ve come expecting roaring.
How can I tell you it’s been days
since I’ve heard my own voice?
That even the moon looks away
from me now,
ashamed of what I’ve become.
But I’m so good at silence now,
I swallow even my explanations.
What a waste, you say, and I agree.
A small nod to let you know:
I’m disappointed too.
But this silence – and my fantasies
of nonexistence – they’re all I
have to offer you now.
Sit with me if you like,
for a while,
I don’t mind.
Leave if it unravels you.
I promise I’ll understand.

Please tell the moon it’s over.
We have loved one another for a quarter of a century
so I know she will understand me when I say:
I’m tired and I’m giving up.
Tell her I’m through.
I’ve become too fascinated with darkness to let her light rule me.

Tell the moon I’m sorry.
April was a graveyard that buried me.
And I am not as dead as I would like and
I am barely who I was when I was above ground,

and moon, beautiful moon,
you keep whispering the sweetest things into my ear,
and I hear you,
and I appreciate you,

and I don’t mean this the wrong way.
I don’t mean to hurt you,
but I let the gloom take over me.

Tell the moon it’s all my fault.
I let things slip away from me.
I had an affair with the absence of light
in our bed,
an April ago,

and it has made a home out of my infidelity.
And I didn’t want to hurt her this way,
And I didn’t want to hurt you this way, moon,
but I kept seeing his face every time you looked down on me.

 

*Disclaimer: This poem is named after Laura Marling’s song, “My Manic and I”.

Darling Readers,

I’m pleased to announce that I finally have a Youtube channel! After 2 years of performing my poetry on stage, I’ve decided it was time to post these performances publicly.

This was a big decision to make, but I’m feeling very optimistic about it. I’ve uploaded 3 videos thus far, but I’m hoping I’ll have more during the upcoming months.

Please feel free to watch the videos, comment, share, and subscribe to my channel!

Here’s a peak:

Nothing grows here in the summer.
The trees, once tall and proud now
droop over sideways, sunburnt and
dizzy with delirium. The birds have
forgotten how to sing; too tired to
tweet their favorite symphonies.

Nothing grows here in the summer.
Even the buildings shrink with the
heat, for once despising their near-
ness to the sky. They don’t look
up to pray anymore: their heads
hanging down avoiding god.

Nothing grows here in the summer.
The grass has learnt that and every
year shrivels in anticipation. And
the flowers: they hang themselves
from their branches – would rather
take matters into their own hands.

Nothing grows here. Mostly in the
summer, but oftentimes the whole
year through. The stench of still-
ness fills the air and drowns our
lungs in stagnation. We have all
gotten used to it. Ask anyone.

Nothing grows here in the summer.
My spine, once tall and proud now
droops downwards. My body shrinks
with the heat. My lungs are filled with
waiting for a better day, but my
head hangs loose from my shoulders-

I’ve gotten used to it. Oftentimes
it lasts the whole year through.
Nothing grows here – the law
strictly forbids it – no matter
our efforts. Now we’ve put our
gardening tools away, and our

bird-houses, and we are no longer
fascinated with tall buildings or
pretty flowers. Nothing grows here,
we’ve learned. So even our dreams
we’ve learned to nip quietly in the bud
before anyone sees them.