This week our trip around the world to the words of poets takes us to Germany with Claudia and England with a prose from Louise.
Claudia Schoenfeld has a love for Jazz and getting drunk off words. She is a mother of three teenagers and part of the team at One Stop Poetry. You can find more of Claudia’s words at jaywalking the moon.
is about pages of unread books,
sparks left on busy streets
when i break
into fragments of what i am,
what i fear, want,
hide & hope
and you love me until morning,
until rays of light
split our pride into tiny stains,
until you no longer
call me a foe
and what stands between us
stays back on the floor,
breathing blue, drunken dreams,
soaked in kisses like wine
we drink greedily,
with love-rough lips,
from broken glasses.
~ ~ ~ ~
Louise Hastings lives inTauntoninSomerset,England. She began writing poetry to cope with mental illness and found she could never imagine life without it. Louise’s poetry can be found at Wings over Waters.
I meet him at the door and slowly walk in, my thoughts as complex and loud as music. The notes jangle to the speed of my spinning world as he ventures into me, bravely tearing at flesh that is made painful by love. Indigestible anger rips out of my sides, spreading green bile across the floor. My senses are quickening as the fingers of his mind start to undress me. His arms are at the embrace of my longing as he gives himself to me and leans into my future. He shows me how the darkness had rolled on top of the light; points out the stars that were burned by the sun.
I am afraid to touch him in case my hands move right through him. I am ashamed to meet his gaze, afraid to reveal the dreams that squirm through my brain like dark anti-matter hiding under lifted rocks. I am in turmoil, but this is the way to the past. In time it will dissolve, grow small and still as the surface of a pond. By remembering I am learning to forget.
There is something in him that intrigues me, something I don’t yet understand. How he gives of himself so freely, yet expects nothing in return; how he holds onto joy during moments in time when the spark seems like it is dying; carrying me along on the cloud burst, away from the grey and mechanic, into the poetic and extraordinary. A place where the ice is melting, where the fire has raged through the forests, where the rivers flow on like electricity.
My spirit is gradually unfolding into being, knitted into the fabric of my hopes and and desires, glistening like dew drops in the morning air. I feel as though I could fly, rise above mountains, soar over jagged rocks. Finally I am shaking off the fear of living and turning it into love. My every day misery is no longer acceptable. I want to feel the icy blast of ocean waters on my skin, feel the unseen fingers brushing through my hair, feel your gaze warming my blood.
I am left exhausted by the flashing images that crowd around like ancient trees inside my head. He is breathing his wholeness into me and I am drinking deeply of his gentle soul. One day soon, I know I will stand at his door dripping with new memories, wearing a flimsy dress that’s soaked through by the rain.