old poem
I was looking for something else in my old art journal pages and came across this poem I wrote back in 2008. It's really not about a bone - it's about something hard that gets lodged in a heart. Today it really spoke to me so I thought I would share it.
I used to do stuff like this all the time - write poems - make collaged journal pages. How can I get back to that? Maybe if I just created a clear space on my painting table with a bucket of water ready for cleaning brushes - that would be enough to entice a collage or painting to appear there. Maybe if I made a point of actively reading poems in a searching way everyday, or read books with writing prompts in them I could get started. I want to try again. I miss it.
Bone - Poem
Talking to the bone.
We are in the blinding white of the center of the heart,
teasing the wicked black into the light.
Working to expose its skeleton,
crumbling, porous,
like chalky cobwebs.
We protect the bone.
If we didn’t, it would all blow away.
And if it did blow away?
The next morning a biting dust will have settled
in the corners of all the rooms,
and baroque tracings of the mystery might be misunderstood.
How to keep the bone and let it go?
Chewing the bone,
cracking the bone,
sucking the sweetness from the bone,
scraping, scratching the bone
to draw the picture,
a monument to our story,
our past, our self.
The heartless bone,
so brittle it breaks even before we fall.
And when we fall another bone breaks.
The prophet bone
grants our wishes,
and adds one more fragment to our cup of distrust.
The path of the bone is hard, and clashing.
Let the flesh clothe the bone,
cover it, soften it,
reach out to touch it gently.
Let it protect the bone from it’s own fierceness.
The bone quietly is placed,
after many years into a locket.
All the hate is drained out of the bone by then.
It is safe to carry it,
to bring it out and talk of it’s pure and odorless smoothness.
Smooth from fingers searching for cracks,
diseased areas, bruises to be healed.
The more the fingers search,
the smoother the bone becomes,
till it is finally smaller,
but perfect.
- Mary Boden 2008
I used to do stuff like this all the time - write poems - make collaged journal pages. How can I get back to that? Maybe if I just created a clear space on my painting table with a bucket of water ready for cleaning brushes - that would be enough to entice a collage or painting to appear there. Maybe if I made a point of actively reading poems in a searching way everyday, or read books with writing prompts in them I could get started. I want to try again. I miss it.
Bone - Poem
Talking to the bone.
We are in the blinding white of the center of the heart,
teasing the wicked black into the light.
Working to expose its skeleton,
crumbling, porous,
like chalky cobwebs.
We protect the bone.
If we didn’t, it would all blow away.
And if it did blow away?
The next morning a biting dust will have settled
in the corners of all the rooms,
and baroque tracings of the mystery might be misunderstood.
How to keep the bone and let it go?
Chewing the bone,
cracking the bone,
sucking the sweetness from the bone,
scraping, scratching the bone
to draw the picture,
a monument to our story,
our past, our self.
The heartless bone,
so brittle it breaks even before we fall.
And when we fall another bone breaks.
The prophet bone
grants our wishes,
and adds one more fragment to our cup of distrust.
The path of the bone is hard, and clashing.
Let the flesh clothe the bone,
cover it, soften it,
reach out to touch it gently.
Let it protect the bone from it’s own fierceness.
The bone quietly is placed,
after many years into a locket.
All the hate is drained out of the bone by then.
It is safe to carry it,
to bring it out and talk of it’s pure and odorless smoothness.
Smooth from fingers searching for cracks,
diseased areas, bruises to be healed.
The more the fingers search,
the smoother the bone becomes,
till it is finally smaller,
but perfect.
- Mary Boden 2008