'there are many ways to drown' - escapril day 7, prompt is 'selkie'
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[Images ID: an original prose poem titled 'there are many ways to drown'. the poem is broken into paragraphs. poem begins:
When my selkie came to me / she made me feel free / her haunting eyes and / easy smile / her lips of salt sea / and her jaw of Highland bone / I held her face in my hands and / for a moment could hold water / felt the pull and tug of the current in her skin / she told me of her life / under the sea / how she yearned for land and its ilk / we captivated each other with / stories of other.
When my selkie came to me / she told me of schools of fish / of mermaids laughing in bubbles / but told me it was so dreary / once you’d seen the sea you’d seen it all / everything awash in cold blue / the North Sea taste in every bite you ate / unlike the sun of the land / where each hour brings a new hue / where each bite is like a thousand strings / each note playing tastebuds she never knew she had / where nature was varied / where mountains soared beyond the eye / where ground touched your feet / where birds and foxes and dogs sang / where day and night passed / where lovers were warmblooded.
When my selkie came to me / I told her of the land / that we no longer worked Highland dirt / where we were further from ourselves / than ever before / lost and grabbing at what we could / any cultural tie to what / we once were / reclaiming language stolen from our tongues / I told her of the land / that humans work an average of 13 years of their life / not accounting for overtime / that we must flock to cities of no community / relocate our lives / end relationships / in order to work / that we breathe in smoke / expelled by metal beasts that dominate the walkways / that homeless freeze in alleyways / and the housed in their tenements / under the thumb of once-invaders and those who bed with them / that the life expectancy drops every year / that we are only given an hour to visit the mortuary / before they are burned / and we are given only a week / to mourn them / before we must return to work.
When my selkie came to me / she told me the land was much more beautiful than the sea / I asked her if / she could cross into any sea she liked / no borders to hold her / and she smiled an ocean / told me that she could / and I asked her to take my skin.
end poem. in the bottom right corner, the writer is credited as 'Ren H.' End ID].
'The Older We Get' - a little letter to a baby butch
day 5 of escapril! inspired by my own prompt, 'to be a person'
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[Images ID: an original prose poem titled 'The Older We Get'. the poem is in a paragraph format. poem begins:
Hi little bird,
Spring’s coming on strong now and I often think of you when it gets late, since you were born between sprouting blooms and summer fever. I know you’re hurting, and you don’t really know why it is or how it is, you can’t put into words the loneliness or the fear; all you know to do is climb trees to their highest point, roll downhill until you’re one big grass-stain, walk your friends home proudly like a tiny gent, give your friend an at home pedicure in your kitchen because her mum won’t let her get one yet, stop on the trail by the stream and close your eyes like it’s just you and running water.
I’m still learning to be a person, you know? And you might think it’s ironic but I think you might’ve had the right idea. I often think I gotta make something of my life, make my dad proud, pay bills, work a 9-5, make my degree worth something; but every time I’m drowning under the pressure, whether it’s self or society imposed, it’s always the same things that brought me peace and joy when I was young that remind me that life is pretty good sometimes. Sometimes you open your bedroom window and the night air is crisp and fresh. Sometimes the cat purrs on your belly. Sometimes you find a daffodil perfect for pressing. And sometimes you open a book just for a dozen pressed flowers to come tumbling out like a season’s time capsule.
I don’t know if we’ll ever figure out how to be a person, I don’t if anyone ever knows, really. Between you and me, I still think adults are pretending to know. But what I do know is that we oughta take stock of the little joys, ought we? Because now those are the moments we living.
end poem. in the bottom right corner, the writer is signed as 'Ren H.' End ID.]
'A Practice in Limits' - about the ethics of archaeology and bodies
this is for escapril day two, from my own prompt 'huge archaeological find'! it turned out longer and weirder than I planned but that's escapril for you lol....
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[Images ID: an original poem titled 'A Practice in Limits'. the poem is lineated. a '/' symbol will be used to communicate when a word is spaced out from the rest of the line/stanza. poem begins:
The house,
or what remained of it,
was to be torn down,
but the archaeologists pleaded
to let them excavate
before the deed was done.
The funding was hard to acquire,
but, finally,
the archaeologists
began their unearthing
of the old Victorian house
in Shrewsbury.
For once,
they needed no shovels,
instead they gloved up
and suited up,
and stepped into the
decaying brick
and mortar hollow.
The archaeologists picked apart
old furniture,
/ shattered windows,
rusted cans,
/ rotten food,
graffiti cannisters,
/ cigarette ends,
old needles,
/ rubbish bags,
every piece of
human abandonment
and revival.
But just as one builder
raised her sledgehammer to
knock out the wall
that would allow them
to rifle further,
there came a breath
from the house itself,
a / slow
wheezing thing
that sent dust flocking to block,
like crematory ash,
the few rays of sun
that could still penetrate
the murky window grime.
All tools were dropped,
aside from their notebooks, of course,
the archaeologists backed / away
looking in horror as
crumbling bricks began to shift,
and the voice spoke to them
directly:
Can I not be left alone,
even now?
I ask for nothing,
I test the limits of my own needs,
test the boundaries of my own
necessities, hollow out my
carcass. Is
privacy the last thing
I am to lose?
The archaeologists fell
to their knees,
up to their shins
in shards and splinters,
but the lead archaeologist
stayed standing,
spoke for the others,
apologised for such brutality,
their ravenous need
to always know everything.
Forgive us,
he said,
We did not know
something could look like this
and still be alive.
The old Shrewsbury house
said nothing else,
and the lead archaeologist
turned to his crew,
eyes teeming with
parasitic life and
red from dust
or hunger;
This is a huge
archaeological find,
a perfect
study
in human suffering.
And so, its bones
were taken out of Shrewsbury,
its flesh displayed in the
unfamiliar cold halls
and walls of glass
of the so-called
British
Museum.
The house was demolished
as planned,
as it turns out,
the council already knew
of its once humanity,
but profits
have to be made. The house
never spoke again,
but everytime the fireplace was lit,
the chimney coughed out
the vile smoke from its lungs,
and everytime the family sat
around the dining room table
with no extra plate
set / out
the windows wailed and
/ rattled
at the dismay of
being once again
forgotten.
What is the line
between
/ remembrance
and
/ objectification?
The old Shrewsbury house
had only asked
one final question
of the hungry excavators,
one that none answered:
Why study the past,
the archaic brutality,
when the same suffering
can be observed
in the house of your neighbour?
Is it more
reassuring
to think that
it is only a
thing
of the past?
end poem. in the bottom right corner of the page, the writer is credited as 'Ren H.' End ID].
Les femmes de Ren Hang - 1 #renh’g #photo #art #exhibition #exposition #nenuphar #lipstick #chinesegirl #photographie #photography #artist (à Maison Européenne de la Photographie) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bw6QWLZA6M7/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=6t4di2usy3ca
