Chapter XIII

For as long as I can remember I always have written poetry. It has been a part of my life for as long as music has. They are kin. Poetry is lyrics with silent music; words flowing across the page creating the melody of a greater expression of human emotion that the poet experienced within her own life and birthing that understanding into a physical representation of what she felt within herself for others to experience. The difference between music and poetry is so slight that really, all a poem needs is a vocalist and instruments to become a piece of music; the poet metamorphosing into a composer.

There is something powerful about the meter, rhythm, rhyme, and alliteration of words. Illustrating through metaphors, analogies, and turn of phrases; all powerful tools to create a moving piece of poetry, gaining for the poet dominance over the reader.

The persistence and historical continuity of the linking of naming and power are unmistakable       Theologians have alleged that this concept is embedded in the first verses of Genesis written over three thousand years ago. We have an alternative to offer scholars, that it is an intrinsic characteristic of classical Greek religion and a central feature in magick and folklore. It is difficult to not admit that in all cases, naming something is seen as the exertion of dominion over that thing or person.”
– page 144, Sacred Magick

My Mother clearly recalls a specific time from my childhood when she walked into the bedroom where I was sitting on the carpeted floor with Daniel babbling to him in what Mother labeled as “nonsense words”. She assumed that I was using my rudimentary language to recite a nursery rhyme that she had spoken to me earlier that day or that I was trying to teach him a familiar childhood song like Mary Had a Little Lamb, which ever it was, she thought the scene was adorable and took a photograph of us; placing the developed photograph in one of the many family albums to be treasured in her older years. While this story may seem pointless to you and doesn’t appear to connect to my love of poetry and music, I assure you it does. Those words I spoke to Daniel that day using my limited and immature vocabulary may have sounded like nonsense words to Mother, meant something to Daniel and me. We understood each other and within those shared words, we held a power that she was unable to understand, a power that connected us to each other and to the realms beyond adult reality, the place where imagination is reality.

The first poem I wrote on paper wasn’t the first poem I created, however it was the first one I shared with others and regretted it the moment I did. I wrote it for a class assignment in the first grade. My teacher was convinced that I plagiarized the poem. Even after I denied the accusation and explained that it was my own work; an original, my parents were called in to a meeting with both the teacher and the principal. No apologizes were ever offered to either my parents or I even after it was revealed that I was “gifted” and the poem was indeed my original work. Though that experience in elementary school stopped me from sharing my poetry with my teachers, it did not dim my passion for writing poetry; that increased with time. By the sixth grade I became fascinated with the works of Edgar Allan Poe, which I read repeatedly until I had them memorized. The solemn tone and gothic feel mesmerized me and inspired me to write my own poetry. The following are my best pieces:

Mistress Dissonance
Dissonance lingers about my spirit
Mistress Dissonance, she is so foul!
The black and crimson gems of her blood cover
The floor, the mirrors,
Are filling with ghosts.

What is so empty as this heart of mine?
An angel’s weep may be distressing,
But it holds no power.
Cymbalta makes everything fine, so the doctor says.
Drugs are a necessary evil,

They are gems of life.
O dissonance, dissonance,
Sweetly tearing my soul asunder!
My Tiffany necklace, gold chains,
Will be tightened later, strangling.

And there you sing, with a low note of C,
Long breath held.
The singers’ voices are decrees,
There is no stopping me.

I am living a lie, dead within.


Once I played the sweet notes,
And the harmony!
Melody caressing
Within from my soul like a prayer.

The voice,
Embraces like arms, like the
Nurse moving,
To re-connect the child,
To its mother,

Who has moved away,
From needy baby,
Biting, clawing and wanting.
A child I,
Witnessed Mother’s desire –

Voice joyful and euphoric.
The heavy tempo throbbing.
From the darkness of the speakers, beckoning
Promising life.

She, hunger-strung, hard to sate,
So tired is her vacant soul
(With heat such as no child should have
And yet hold breath)
That all good deeds are left
Undone, how angels must cry;
Blood’s smear
Fashioned by her hand,
Choice not made, laid neatly,
Upon the stitched quilt;
Though warm bodies huddle beneath,
She’ll not sing
Nor speak her thought until
Malicious heart’s departed.

The music is moving,
Answers without questions,
Smooth and melodic as waves,
Whose arms reach out,
In the silence of angry desperation under summer stars.

I remember,
The rotten smell of sweat on lace dresses,
The yellow of stains, the hot putrid smelling breath,
I’ve never seen God, he’s not my salvation.
No spoken prayer aloud.

Nothing without lyrics,
No Will, no purpose and dead.
Dead empty, left out in the rain, the tears,
That wet my cheeks from empty eyes.
No spoken prayer in silence.

The salvation of the melody,
Dancing in circles in my room? Harmony?
Or feeling the melodic beat,
Of completeness within the refrain of others,
The wild bards, those –

Whose psyches are so full they are joyful.
The woman in her dark, metal cage,
Beneath the dirt of her skin,
Is there no grand escape, only captivity?

Does the music,
Feel the dancer move to it?
Spirit leaks from the flesh,
The mind of the body spins, the eyes tear,
The girl moans in sorrow.
The music throbs in the ears.
The dark closes in, it is midnight.

She is alive.