Little Sleep's-head sprouting hair in the moonlight

Discussion in 'I Have a Question...' started by Galway Kinnell, Jun 5, 2009.

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  1. You scream, waking from a nightmare.

    When I sleepwalk
    into your room, and pick you up,
    and hold you up in the moonlight, you cling to me
    as if clinging could save us. I think
    you think
    I will never die, I think I exude
    to you the permanence of smoke or stars,
    even as
    my broken arms heal themselves around you.

    I have heard you tell
    the sun, don't go down, I have stood by
    as you told the flower, don't grow old,
    don't die. Little Maud,

    I would blow the flame out of your silver cup,
    I would suck the rot from your fingernail,
    I would brush your sprouting hair of the dying light,
    I would scrape the rust off your ivory bones,
    I would help death escape through the little ribs of your body,
    I would alchemize the ashes of your cradle back into wood,
    I would let nothing of you go, ever,
    until washerwomen
    feel the clothes fall asleep in their hands,
    and hens scratch their spell across hatchet blades,
    and rats walk away from the cultures of the plague,
    and iron twists weapons toward the true north,
    and grease refuses to slide in the machinery of progress,
    and men feel as free on earth as fleas on the bodies of men,
    and lovers no longer whisper to the presence beside them in the
    dark, O corpse-to-be . . .

    And yet perhaps this is the reason you cry,
    this the nightmare you wake screaming from:
    being forever
    in the pre-trembling of a house that falls.

    In a restaurant once, everyone
    quietly eating, you clambered up
    on my lap: to all
    the mouthfuls rising toward
    all the mouths, at the top of your
    voice you cried
    your one word, caca! caca! caca!
    and each spoonful
    stopped, a moment, in midair, in its withering

    you cling because
    I, like you, only sooner
    than you, will go down
    the path of vanished alphabets,
    the roadlessness
    to the other side of the darkness,

    your arms
    like the shoes left behind,
    like the adjectives in the halting speech
    of old men,
    which once could call up the lost nouns.

    And you yourself,
    some impossible Tuesday
    in the year Two Thousand and Nine, will walk out
    among the black stones
    of the field, in the rain,

    and the stones saying
    over their one word, ci-gicirct, ci-gicirct, ci-gicirct,

    and the raindrops
    hitting you on the fontanel
    over and over, and you standing there
    unable to let them in.

    If one day it happens
    you find yourself with someone you love
    in a cafe at one end
    of the Pont Mirabeau, at the zinc bar
    where white wine
    stands in upward opening glasses,

    and if you commit then, as we did, the error
    of thinking,
    one day all this will only be memory,

    as you stand
    at this end of the bridge which arcs,
    from love, you think; into enduring love
    learn to reach deeper
    into the sorrows
    to come-to touch
    the almost imaginary bones
    under the face, to hear under the laughter
    the wind crying across the black stones. Kiss
    the mouth
    which tells you, here,
    here is the world. This mouth. This laughter. These temple bones.

    The still undanced cadence of vanishing.

    In the light the moon
    sends back, I can see in your eyes

    the hand that waved once
    in my father's eyes, a tiny kite
    wobbling far up in the twilight of his last look:

    and the angel
    of all mortal things lets go the string.

    Back you go, into your crib.

    The last blackbird lights up his gold wings: farewell.
    Your eyes close inside your head,
    in sleep. Already
    in your dreams the hours begin to sing.

    Little sleep's-head sprouting hair in the moonlight,
    when I come back
    we will go out together,

    we will walk out together among
    the ten thousand things,
    each scratched too late with such knowledge, the wages
    of dying is love.
  2. plates

    plates Well-Known Member

    You know, one thing that keeps me alive through all this is that you might be psychotic and drunk. As this poem clearly shows.

    I do know the difference between someone comforting I have in my head and someone who posts up messages like this as well as songs on his MS that have now disappeared.
    And the person who didn't do a thing as those two women harrassed me and broke into my blog on TM.

    I don't give a fuck who reads this anymore.

    Then again, I live on an endless supply of dreams (I am me in 2006, I exist on a single post in 2006), and I created "Chris" out of those fantasies. He doesn't exist. Nor does his actions or words. He was just playing with me. So the above is a lie. I didn't trust it anyway.
    Last edited by a moderator: Aug 18, 2009
  3. Rose24

    Rose24 Chat & Forum Buddy

    I don't understand :unsure:
  4. kurenai

    kurenai Well-Known Member

    Thank you, thank you, thank you for posting this. It really resonates with the otherworldly feelings I tend to have most of the time, that no one seems to understand or wants to medicate away. This is one of the very best poems I've ever read, and not just on this website. You should consider publishing it! =)))))))))))))))))
  5. PandorasToybox

    PandorasToybox Well-Known Member

    ggg4567 .... what are you talking about?? :\
  6. Necromanti

    Necromanti Well-Known Member

    From what I "understand" in this extremely confusing situation, ggg4567 has been harassed by people from some forums called TouchingMinds. Apparently, the OP is one of these stalkers who posts here under various "anonymous" pseudonyms.
    This character, "Chris", seems to be a complete psychopath who has taken advantage of ggg4567, and completely fucked with her mind. I think he has pretended to love her, pretended that he wasn't real at one point, etc. It's just completely messed up. I won't mention the other unspeakable things that he has done, since they seem to have met up in person too (?).

    I apologize to you, ggg4567, because I know it is not my place to say anything, but you need to get far away from these kinds of sickos. Heck, even I feel loopy trying to understand it. :blink:
  7. plates

    plates Well-Known Member

    You got it in a nutshell Necromanti, it takes a lot of effort to try and relay the whole story to people here but thanks for writing that out for me.

    I haven't met up with him. But he communicated to me through his MS for a year and I went through stuff with his MS 'friends' communicating to me through their thing there, I can't be bothered to go into it, but it's all closed down for a year (I basically approached the man on his MS again, he closed it down) and I've been trying to cope with what happened this past year. Yes, the latest thing he put up on another place he posted on here (to go follow him) was that he wasn't real. I get it, he's drunk and so were his friends who followed me (one of them a moderator), drunk and having a great time fucking with my life without me knowing it.
    Last edited by a moderator: Aug 19, 2009
  8. itmahanh

    itmahanh Senior Member & Antiquities Friend

    What a horrible ordeal for you to have to struggle with hun. But I hope you know you have "real" friends here that only want to support you and help you through whatever demons are plaguing you. Be strong and when you cant let others here help keep you strong. x's & o's hun.
  9. Rose24

    Rose24 Chat & Forum Buddy

    :hug: Can't you get a ban by IP address?
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