i'm not really here

Epictetus was right.

vanessa seijo

vanessa seijo
Location
Puerto Rico
Birthday
January 07
Title
scribbler
Company
ink and quill
Bio
Author of Nicolás, la abuela Margot y el hechicero. Ediciones SM Puerto Rico 2010

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APRIL 16, 2011 4:11PM

books for the dead

Rate: 19 Flag

(i wonder if the dead read, what with all that time available) 

 

were i to cry
until dissolution
until misery laughed open-mouthed
the loss of all appetites, bliss--
stilled tumult of heart
space between ribs dull
gone the ache
a nice cavity emptied
cleaned
filled with cotton or straw
smelling sweetly of incense
face covered, painted hands
crossed over chest
waiting

copyright 2011 vanessa seijo

Author tags:

found by chance, inked journals, april is the cruelest month, etherized on a table, i love eliot

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I see the "Eliot-ness," Vanessa, or at least reading your poem I get the kind of shudder I get with so much of Eliot's work--especially that pregnant concluding word, "waiting." And the adjective "nice" in "nice cavity"--perfect choice!
Jerry DeNuccio
April 16, 2011 04:34 PM
what with all that time available.....

They are surely mixing it up in the day to day .... mostly on their own terms.
Nick Carraway
April 16, 2011 05:04 PM
Maybe it's the books that are waiting... for yet more attention, aunque sea de ojos aguados...
catch-22
April 16, 2011 05:45 PM
i was once etherized on a table
for kicks
and reached the still point
of the turning world,
neither flesh nor fleshless,
neither from nor towards,
where the dance is...

little damn good it did me: i was paralyzed!
waiting for the surgeon to stuff my
hollow chest
with straw.

i didn't cry. it was a relief being stuffed.
i whimpered a bit, that's all.
James M. Emmerling
April 16, 2011 06:20 PM
vanessa of the great words that make magic when they are all strung together.
rated with hugs
Linda Seccaspina
April 16, 2011 06:26 PM
Almost makes corpse-hood a thing devoutly to be wished. Almost. Not quite.
Brassawe
April 16, 2011 07:47 PM
Oh! So Eliot-ish. I love you both.~r
Joan H.
April 16, 2011 08:52 PM
"Let us go then, you and I..."

but perhaps not just yet.

;)
lorianne
April 16, 2011 09:13 PM
Wow, this painted such a vivid picture for me.r
hugs, me
April 17, 2011 01:02 AM
Your poetry is hauntingly beautiful with various levels of meaning and layers. It's the sort of poetry that one finds herself wanting to read more and again.
I Love Life
April 17, 2011 01:15 AM
The smell. It's always the smell.
Rated.
Scylla the Rock
April 17, 2011 02:29 AM
"the loss of all appetites"; "gone the ache." True, it would seem--but that suggests that the dead would not read, for since most of literature is about appetites and emotions, heartache (and sometimes joy), it would all be foreign to them. Unless they remembered, but they still could not feel.

Maybe they read accountant's ledgers . . . .
AtHomePilgrim
April 17, 2011 10:18 AM
Darn! I scrolled down a tad too far and saw Jerry's comment and got the kind of shudder I get seeing a perfect comment. Tuff act to follow. Good to see you here.
Matt Paust
April 17, 2011 10:43 AM
vanesa, Well they could choose from the Tibetan Book of the Dead and the Dead Sea Scrolls. :)

just kidding ...nice poem
Scarlett Sumac
April 17, 2011 05:00 PM
Too much speaks to me here but nothing more than the "waiting."
anna1liese
April 17, 2011 06:06 PM
if you have interest in it , take action !!!!!
{{w w w }} {{ happyshopping100 }} {{ com }}
iris ggg
April 17, 2011 08:50 PM
your words coalesce

note: the dead are free to read sure

but the text will not be the familiar

,
ume
April 19, 2011 10:36 AM
How did I miss this? Me too: Eliot was one of my earliest poetic crushes. I've got a soft spot for Four Quartets, especially.

So many of your recent poems include the conditional tense - they're like signposts in uncharted territories.
consonantsandvowels
April 21, 2011 03:17 PM
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