Poetry.

[.Irénè Gabriela DuGrace.]

Untitled

Before stepping into bed,
unhappily the woman said-
“Love has brought me to this dread,
in the way that it was here, and now has fled.”

Alone the woman went to bed,
and found that all her dreams were dead.
Suffering she cried and said-
“Love has cut fates golden thread.”

While she lay awake in bed,
she held a book and from the pages read,
the words of poets long now dead.
They filled her heart and then her head.

Her words were written in red.
Her words were written in blood she bled.
To the world this is what she said-

“Beware he who thinks that love is bread,
and accepts to live in doubtful dread.”

Alone they found her in her bed.
Alone they found that she was dead.

[.Irénè Gabriela DuGrace.]

Adam's Poem

He’s the dark side of the moon
when he wears those black shirts.
Shoulders wide as Atlas’, but round
and portly, and tender as a child’s.

And you’re in my mind now, more
than ever, when it is cigarette
smoke that’s made you an acquaintance
to my hesitant recollection.

Rudely you track mud through the floors
of my mind. Following your every
curiosity. With questions that drew
tears, and tears that wet the earth inside me.

And it use to upset me, cleaning up
the mess you left behind. Until I saw
it was Pandora’s Box you opened, and it
was with renewed hope you left me.

[.Irénè Gabriela DuGrace.]

Where silence has failed, I hope Poetry might overpower,
I’ve tasted the snow that falls, and have found that it tastes sour.
The numbness (romantic or not), is what has killed the vine,
And my hopeless attempts to hold on are childlike, ‘mine-mine’.

I know what the flowers feel, when Fall comes ‘round,
The last summer bloom is violated, harder and harder to be found.
Much like kind hearts, tortured and wounded when they burrow deep,
‘till Persephone finds her way back, they find their peace in sleep.

[.Irénè Gabriela DuGrace.]

(My award winning piece)


Orange

It’s the sting of no consideration
that follows in your wake.
I think of,
What you thought of,
and picture orange blossoms.

They were of a time when I would wait.
Seeping through the glass,

Remember the-
smell of citrus-crisp and cold?


I would hold it to your face, show you
so we could count the pores of orange skin.
Abuse it with a fingernail so you could smell,

Remember a-
time when it wasn’t hard?


It was of a-
/smile
that lasted as long as a sweet slice.
Of yellow and red forbidden-fruit.
A memory I’d hope to hold forever,
but with time, names mingle,
Travis-or-Trevor…

Remember?
I won’t remember.


But what will last?
Every time I hold the sun
its skin of yellow or red.
Before I let it fall into me, I will,

Remember
To be careful
of
what falls into
me

[.ϾђɑɍĮόϯϯɛ.]

Loneliness

It strikes you—even in the best of company.
While driving down abandoned roads, and
stretching sore limbs out tinted windows just
to steal oranges.


It burrows deep—even when you lie about
it. Organic oranges smell the best, they don’t
need to be scratched for the oils to seep
through.


It breaths with you, becomes a part of you,
lives in you, and steals a portion of joy from
your every moment.


Even in the best of company.



Warning against icy roads don’t stop us
from going fast. Swaying at the turns,
stomachs churning and openings clenching
in the anticipation of one miscalculation,
and then an overturned car—and dying out
there where there’s no reception for our
phones.


Who cares if orange skin is bitter? The meat is
sweet, the juice better than anything in the
stores and the pain from the acid biting
my lips reminds me of…


I like oranges.

I like wood crosses on the side
of the road.


With no flowers to leave on road side
crosses, I leave my tattered oranges. I set them
like an offering, their blood sucked dry and
my mouth painted red like some hypersensitivity
that expands past emotional bonds.
All I can offer is the smell, a portion of my
soul left on that road with those crosses.


In memory of…


I can’t be bothered to read the name, I am too
dizzy, too sick of myself, too deep in now…


And I don’t care who I am with. I am alone in
my head, and that’s what I can’t stand. I can
smile, laugh, cry if you want me too…if it
suits you.


I just don’t care.


Leave my cross out there, away from the
others. Leave me under open skies, and close
to where the ice forms its thickest trap, I’ll
guard over those who drive too fast.


And leave me oranges, if you can, when you
can, drop me off some stolen ones but only
after you’ve mangled them.

[.Irénè Gabriela DuGrace.]

The glaring white of the world just beyond my window is reflected,
here on this paper where my thoughts, dreams, hopes are neglected.
To trace the brilliance of others is not to pick up a pen.
It’s not just writing and repeating the words of great men.

I wonder, where, if anywhere there might be room for me in complications,
somehow I want to cause in others but for a moment some minor frustrations.
I wish to exist in the resentment of imagination.
To realize the dreams that lacked even sensation.

And ‘tis upon this white paper where I may write my story and bear my soul,
but thinking it and writing it are different, it is upsetting to try and fill this hole.
What of anything actually belongs to me?
Sentimental nonsense, a lock that lacks a key.

Like antique treasure chests, fortitude in general is an uncommon thing to find,
but these riches unlike gold or silver, merely thoughts make people rather unkind.
The value of gems is constant if not in gold, in affection
But what of my thoughts? An honest self reflection.

Once more I meet with glaring white and guilty self imposed adoration,
if only I can love myself then let me be worth every ounce of admiration.
Like a tree that grows by virtue of merely existing.
Let me live my life forever resisting.

The temptations to live without ever studying the depths of my soul,
though it may well be a dismal place, empty and painted like coal.
It is not the person I wish to be,
but it is undeniable, unknowable, me.

And though the glaring white beyond my window causes me no fear,
The honest truth of every word I write brings me a spark of cheer.
Like fireflies in childhood recollections,
‘tis a single part of my human complexions.

Like the anxiety of death brought to life only by my fears,
To be forgotten, to be unloved, to be unseen echoes in my future years.
Born alone we die alone or so the story goes,
All the thorns I’ve found in life, but never a single rose.

[.ϾђɑɍĮόϯϯɛ.]

It started years ago when someone found your windup key.
One can’t help but wonder, how many hearts you filled with glee.
Or maybe even comfort, when sentiments were low,
when adolescent hearts were filled with mystifying woe.

I rescued you from a dusty drawer, lost with yellowing paper,
dried rose petals, and empty bottles of perfume, all dying amorous vapor.
So thankful for your rescue, in my palm you sat.
Chiming to me so desperately, as if in mortal combat.

The world was so unkind to you, I remember it well,
the grime that gathered on your comb, the rust-dust smell.
They said, throw that thing away.
They said, that thing will never play.

But on your silver-cylinder with tiny perching pins
There was a story yet to tell, akin to the voice of violins.
Every tooth upon your comb required thoughtful care,
I knew that you were special, your melody was rare.

I saw myself in every detail of your abandoned life.
I knew that you could play unselfishly, ignoring all your strife.
And ever hopeful I’ll wait for someone whose heart I can touch with glee,
a special someone just for me, to find my windup key.

[.Irénè Gabriela DuGrace.]

This one is a bit...hard to post, but I'd love to get some feedback on it.

Butterflies


It was like a forest to me
that area behind all the houses, those trees
Those eucalyptus trees tall as castles
and the swaying branches that masked human smell
human sound
but saved a human life by virtue
-no
by faith of their scent, in hot winters down in the tropics

Those trees whined and battled against the softest breeze
Sore trunks, like all things old, didn’t want to bend

Butterflies that day!
like a dream when you know you’re dreaming
They came tenderly to my young senses
First, one
two
three
Suddenly-eight, a dozen all on the ground
Pulsing together, more and more

Cheerless green eucalyptus leaves were transformed
The trees dripped, heavy and pregnant with-
Brown black butterflies!
They’re making love, mother said

She was sad
I was too young

Making love, I repeated, picking up a pair
deep in the lunges of passion, wings
fluttered, like time slowed down,
caressing my knuckles

She cried,
and I was too young

[.Irénè Gabriela DuGrace.]

[This is a really old piece I wrote--really, ages ago. But I re-read it today and was thinking of possibly going through it and editing it and polishing it up a bit. Although this is a work of fiction, it was modeled after a real situation and the events that lead to that one moment. When I was writing this, I sort of felt like it was the equivalent to the figure studies that artists sometimes do. I had nothing in particular to write about so I attempted to write a piece of my life in the form of a story. I'd love some feedback, especially on how to make it sound a bit more fluid. Although I wanted it to seem very stream of conscious, I don't really think it comes off that way at all. Just as a disclaimer too, this is a highly "emo" piece. In my defense I was dealing with a bout of depression during the time, but regardless of that I do like the subject matter of the actual story.]


Adam was as big as the world to her. Tall and round, he moved slow like a huge body in space, carefully making its way. Size didn’t really hinder him. He was one of those gracious obese people, like watching a hippo under water, bouncing around in slow motion on the tips of his toes. He worked on the weekends as a bouncer in the next town over, getting fondled and embraced by drunken girls that confused him for a cuddly life sized teddy bear. They didn’t ever really appreciate him. He’d often explained how he’d lead a lost girl back to her group of friends before some asshole could get to her.

Every now and then, when they were having one of their random nights up in hills, she’d ask why he didn’t go back to school. Adam said it was because school just wasn’t for him, he wasn’t stupid but he had no interest in sitting for hours in a class. He’d rather be watching TV during the day and living his life during the night. She didn’t really believe him. She thought it was because Adam was afraid he wouldn’t fit in the desks. It wasn’t meant to be a mean spirited thought, it’s just that Adam well he was just larger than life.

They’d go up to the hills, to the spot. It had never been her spot, her spot was farther up in the mountains, along a far more dangerous twisting and winding road that was more abandoned in the early hours of the morning, up by Painted Caves.

This particular spot belonged to an ex of hers. Her ex had shown it to her months ago before they broke up. It felt like a strange sort of revenge to take another guy up there, about two or three miles from the main freeway, going right into the blind-turn road of hill mansions. But the spot was between a stretch of road that had no people living close to it, so they could roll down the windows of the car and blast their music while they sat on the boulders looking down over the tiny sea-side city.

She felt sorry for him. He wanted so badly to be exactly what she needed. When she’d sit and drop her head, slump her shoulders, and bare her battle scars from yet another failed relationship he’d always be the one to whisper half whimsically that there was someone out there for her. And when she went into exact detail about the perfect guy for her he’s grow frustrated. He’d let out a heavy sigh, mostly notable because his thick neck sort of forced sighs to slip past his lips with a raspy sort of wheezing sound.

“I don’t get girls,” he would finally huff out.

“We’re not that complicated.”

“That’s bullshit. You all say you want nice guys, then when an actual nice guy is right there, I mean right there sitting next to you, you don’t even see him.”

“You know it’s not that easy.”

“Maybe it should be, you know? Maybe that’s why it’s so hard for you, because you look for the shit that’s just too hard to find. Why don’t you try someone that’s easy?”

She actually looked up at him, unable to hide the grin that was spreading over her lips. He couldn’t help it, her smile was intoxicating, besides part of the reason he loved her was that perverted sense of humor, girls just didn’t laugh at that sort of stuff anymore.

“Easy, huh?” she echoed.

They both burst into a fit of giggles, suddenly children again.

It made her uncomfortable when he spoke up on the possibility of changing their friendship. Not because there was any serious possibility, but because she knew that she didn’t share in his feelings. It hurt to watch him try to question the reason why she didn’t just accept him. It was not her ego that was insulted, not her sense of safety that was threatened. It was the knowledge that she hurt him every time she refused him.
They never lied to each other, or so both of them believed. So they tended to be very honest, to the point of scratching the scab off an old wound, to the point even of rubbing salt on the old wound. Sometimes he’d shake his head at her and cross his thick arms and merely write her off as crazy. He’d say that she did this to herself, always paying attention to the assholes. And she, well she’d get down to the point and try to explain how in order for a relationship to work there has to be a mental attraction as well as a physical attraction. Oddly enough they didn’t do it to hurt each other, but to try and convince one another.

She didn’t love him. She tried to be honest because her peace of mind was more valuable than anything.

“I think I use you, Adam,” she said one night.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, well, it’s like,” she paused and in the moonlight he saw her brows gather in frustration, “I am not a good person. I talk to you because it feels good talking to you, because it makes me feel better getting some of this stuff off my chest.”

“That’s usually how a friendship goes,” he stated, his voice was thick that night, like his tongue was swollen.

“Yeah, I know but…I mean we don’t really hang out as friends. This is all we have, we come up here to the spot and talk. Friends, real friends, they do more shit together, you know?”

“Well you know I am always free, just a call away. You just never want to hang out.”

“Exactly,” she leaned back resting her back against a rock, she didn’t want to go into why she never called to hang out with him. How it would probably feel embarrassing to be seen with him. Once or twice they had gone to see a movie together, and his heavy breathing had interrupted the line of dialoged coming from the screen. She couldn’t even stand the idea of trying to watch a movie with him again.

“It’s just, lately I’ve been so closed off,” she finally continued, changing the conversation completely. “I don’t want to hang out with anyone, you know? I just sort of want to exist on my own. Be one of those hermits. Usually I hate it, being alone, but lately I’ve sort of enjoyed it.”

“You get a lot of writing done, don’t you?”

“How do you know?”

“Well, you’re not really a quiet soul. You post everything at least everything you want people to see.”

“You read my stuff?” she felt the corners of her lips twitch into a half smile.

“Yeah,” he felt shy suddenly.

“Half the time I don’t think anyone even pays attention. You know? Like being in a room full of people screaming and screaming and no one even turns to look at you. Like, your just saying, ‘HEY here’s my soul! Look at it please!’ but no one can give you the fucking time of day.”

“I do.”

They both went silent. They watched the fog rolling from the ocean, down into the valley below. They were at the top of a hill, the mountains behind them, and another hill just across, they could practically reach down and scoop the fog up from between the two hills. But it never rose to their height. It never covered the dull twinkling stars, or the lazy moon that shone down on them with silver.

“I am just fucking sad,” she said breaking the awkward silence. There were tears in her eyes, and she didn’t bother to hide them. He opened up an arm and welcomed her against his fat warm body, holding her close and protecting her from the cold. “And I am really tired of saying that, I am really tired of saying I am sad. You know Adam—you’ll get tired of hearing it. You’ll go away too. Everyone goes away, and you know what’s funny?”

“What’s funny?” He asked, trying to see past the thin fog down at the blinking red lights of the airport close to the university. They could see the whole city from up here.

“I am not mad about people leaving me, hell, I am envious. If I could get away from myself, I would do it too.”

He wanted to say that he loved her. That he loved how sad she was, because it made her more self aware than any person he had ever met. He wanted to tell her that he loved the poems she wrote that she thought were stupid, what’s the word she used to describe them? Cliché? Yeah, he loved her cliché poems about love and being alone, and the ones where she wrote about feeling like she was dying. He wanted to tell her that he hated the shit she wrote about orange trees and suntan lotion, and that it was alright to just be sad.

“No ones ever left you because they wanted too,” it was the best he could come up with to sum up the lump of emotion that formed in his chest.

“When you were pissed at me, and you stopped talking to me, I was happy for you too Adam. I was glad you wouldn’t have to hear me whining anymore.”

“Whining is what you do about those assholes. That gets sort of annoying.”

She stared up at him wide eyed, before breaking into tearful laughter.

“You’re a jerk.”

“You’re not whining,” he squeezed her with his heavy arm, “and if I can help it, I’ll never go away again. That whole thing was a mistake,” he seemed flustered, turning his gaze from her back down to the city below.

“You were hurt. I don’t blame you for it.”

“I made a fool of myself.”

“Adam, it’s not a big deal.”

“It is. I made you think I didn’t want to be around you. I just felt like an idiot, that’s all.”

Two months prior to their reunion at the spot, they had gone to watch a movie. He’d wrapped his arm around her and he’d strummed his fingers down along her side until he’d pulled her bra strap off her shoulder. She was far too polite to say anything about it then, but once she got home she’d sent him an e-mail about how uncomfortable it had made her. Embarrassment had kept him away since then, until the point where he couldn’t stand not knowing how she was. If only he knew how often that happened to her, people disappearing and reappearing once they were ready again to deal with her.

“Well it doesn’t matter. I was happy for you, but now I am happy for me, I have my friend back.” She leaned her head against his shoulder.

It was a painful sort of reality he had to accept. She wanted him in her life, badly, but not in the way he wanted to be present in her life. She knew that it would take its toll on him, she knew how he felt. Perhaps she knew how he felt better than he did, she knew the attraction produced…how frustrating and painful it was to want someone who just didn’t want you back. Part of her wanted to stop this, to stop the meetings up at the spot so that he could have a chance. So long as she was in the picture he’d wait, she knew he would. But he listened to her, he didn’t try to understand her, he just listened. It disgusted her that she could be so selfish, so completely involved in her own state of emotion that she wouldn’t care what she was doing to someone else but…

“Adam, what if I stopped talking to you?”

“Pay back?” he asked in that raspy-wheezy voice of his.

“More like paying my debt.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Yeah, well…your face doesn’t make sense.”

“My Lord, you’re mean tonight. Breaking my heart and shit.”

They both giggled, although she was actually staring up at his face. She was glaring at the way the layers of fat took over his forehead and pushed down on his brows so that his eyes appeared tiny and sleepy. She hated the way the rolls of skin gathered under his chin. He had tiny features hidden on a huge face.

“I am sorry,” she pulled away form his arm and rubbed her sore sides. He always made her laugh way too much, and laughing while being so sad, it was the sort of thing that messed with your head.

“Someday you’ll be free of me,” she nodded and smiled.

To Adam, she looked peaceful. She had just admitted, no, she had just accepted that she would have this sort of lonely life, and she looked so peaceful.

“I hope not.”

“I hope so,” she had tears in her eyes again.

I love you, he said in his head.