I Will Never Understand
“This girl is killing me.” She says. “I wish you could begin to understand.”
I never look up, in front of me I envision the anthology of deaths I have died over the last few months, I can see, in detail, the collection of beautiful, scroll-handled knives I have had to remove from my heart. Each lovely talon-sharp blade having been placed there by her, the girl who wishes I could begin to understand.
She looks over at me and her green eyes burn hot, I haven’t seen that flame in some time. “You don’t have to say anything, Rae. I know that you get me. It’s just hard because this girl does something to me. I want it to work because she is, like perfect, for me. I already told everyone this was it, and you know I hate looking like - well, it's a pride thing. You know."
I nod, but on the inside there is a sinister growl. I will not say anything but she is wrong. I don't know and I don’t get this. This, this RIDICULOUS lack of good judgment, this foolishly acting blind, this eternal pining for that which is hideously undeserving and perhaps more insulting unaware how undeserving it is! Disgust is seeping in through the wounds that her marvelous daggers left inside of me. Impatience begins to breathe with me and I feel myself laughing a little deeper in my belly.
I was once such an ignorant girl, I was once so wrong. She was once extraordinarily blessed to have me see her that way, she is now the extreme ignorance ~ unaware that each evening she becomes less able to reclaim her god-like stature.
The lion's luck dwindles, cosmic mistakes are slowly corrected.
I never look up, in front of me I envision the anthology of deaths I have died over the last few months, I can see, in detail, the collection of beautiful, scroll-handled knives I have had to remove from my heart. Each lovely talon-sharp blade having been placed there by her, the girl who wishes I could begin to understand.
She looks over at me and her green eyes burn hot, I haven’t seen that flame in some time. “You don’t have to say anything, Rae. I know that you get me. It’s just hard because this girl does something to me. I want it to work because she is, like perfect, for me. I already told everyone this was it, and you know I hate looking like - well, it's a pride thing. You know."
I nod, but on the inside there is a sinister growl. I will not say anything but she is wrong. I don't know and I don’t get this. This, this RIDICULOUS lack of good judgment, this foolishly acting blind, this eternal pining for that which is hideously undeserving and perhaps more insulting unaware how undeserving it is! Disgust is seeping in through the wounds that her marvelous daggers left inside of me. Impatience begins to breathe with me and I feel myself laughing a little deeper in my belly.
I was once such an ignorant girl, I was once so wrong. She was once extraordinarily blessed to have me see her that way, she is now the extreme ignorance ~ unaware that each evening she becomes less able to reclaim her god-like stature.
The lion's luck dwindles, cosmic mistakes are slowly corrected.
3 Comments:
It is intruging and yet so recognisable, I mean one could say it is like part of a love story, without needing to know everthing that is going on.
It is like a fragment of ones life, or a possible fragment.
It is very well written, and the language you chose, is magical.
You have a nice blog, I think I will spend some time reading it. I wonder, have you never thought of combinging the two. Using this fragment as te base for a painting or a series of small paintigns ?
I'd like to know your honest opinion, on some of the poems, that you can find on droomdachten.blogspot.com .
They are not all in english, but I will translate them for you if you want to.
Thank you so much for your comments, they are always welcome and when they are so wonderfully kind it rejuvenates the writers soul. You understand so perfectly, it’s the fragments which make up one’s life, scraps of tissue paper and drips of paint that equal the extraordinary and awesome frailty of existence.
Yes, this blog ~ my life, my love story, my lessons ~ and art began to merge several months ago and I am currently working on a series of small, mixed media projects that go hand in hand. I would love to share them with you.
I came to read your poetry, I’m afraid I cannot. I then looked for an email address, but alas I searched the fruitless search. I would love to read your poetry if you would be so kind as to translate them.
Thank you, again. I hope you enjoy your time here.
Sorry, my mistake.
My email adress is dachtendenker@gmail.com.
You really have a great style, a great way of expressing yourself, it is such a delight reading what you write, and how you write it.
Droomdachten is dutch and if wirtten correctly, which I didn't, then it should be droom gedachten, but it didn't sound that good, so I left it. It means dreamy thoughts.
And Mistwereld, means Mistworld, a world filled with mist, remniscent of those found and reffered to in the books about king Arthur. One sees and think he/she sees it full, but its only a siloeth.
When its misty, nature and even city's get such a magical atmosphere. Silence appears, and time stands still. Its the magical time, between night and day, or between evening and night.
Translated from Wintersneeuw, but I'd apreciate any advice on the way of expressing it in english.
Wintersnow
snowed in city,
romantic landscape,
appearing once again,
just a little.
Layer by layer,
whirls out of the air,
a painting, painted,
without a brush.
Thoughts about/to you,
whirl slowly,
like snow,
dreaming trough my dreams.
Turtle doves of time gone by,
remember time when,
the looks and geastures that everything was ok.
Time and time again,
in the deepest dreams,
trough the years,
when that image,
of a snowed,
silenced world, reapears,
will the memory, the connection,
be renewed.
As the little king, (1)
fears every winter,
so will the memory,
fear every year passing by,
and stil. Every year she lives on,
till the day she rewakes,
the understanding comes,
hope renewed.
(1) its a very small bird, they
are born in great numbers, but when winters are cold, many of them day, some make it trought the winter. I don't know if they live in North America as well, or anything like them.
As you may have a guessed it is a poem about, love that is being found, and doesn't work out, the memory of it, that lingers, and then later, when understanding comes, a hope that renews.
This translation is compared to your style very rought, and literally translated. As you may notice, I don't write that much about emotions.
I think, I might just be a bit afraid to lay open my soul, for everyone to see, knowing how they have reacted in the past, and still do.
You can find a picture of me, although an old one, on mistbeelden.blogspot.com . Mist beelden, woud mean mist statues, although I have no idea how they should look like in real life.
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