Poetic Ramblings (or a reasonable facsimile thereof)

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Grace's Poetic Ramblings

Home of impassioned rants, insomniac ramblings, and sophomoric mumblings of yours truly, Grace Mrowicki

I Am A Proud Member Of:

Phenomenal Women Of The Web

On this page are a collection of poems that I have written. If you have any feedback on any of these poems, you can e-mail me. Or you can go to my feedback form and write about it in the comments.
There are always more poems to come. Also in terms of my writing, here is a link to the page that has just begun to contain some essays I've written about sci-fi books and their vison of the future (Yes, that was the link). I also have started a page containing some wonderful spanish-language poetry and translations. Right now I feel influenced by the works of Margaret Atwood and Marge Piercy. I just thought I'd say that. Okay, that was a bit random. Also, if you like reading poetry, go check out Fern's Greenhouse. It's a site with collections of and links to wonderful poetry by various amateur poets. This site is also part of the Poetry Webring (see bottom of page for details). And now on to my actual poetry. Enjoy!

Table of Contents:

The Gray Night

The gray night draws its lukewarm curtain across everything,
keeping its secrets as to where the full moon
that would have been has hidden herself.
The rain, in its verbose euphonious cacophony
offers a stream of soothing muddy words,
but not one of them answers anything.
Instead all they do is invite me to dance with them in
the half-light, like water cut with chocolate,
makes it look as if the window is far enough open
to let me out.
I can't push it anymore
or it will snap frightenedly shut.
I shout silently at the rain
to stop tempting me
and to the light
to let me sleep.
But the light keeps hiding
and the rain continues
its seductive rhythmic invitation
without flinching.
But this halfway point until
I have to open the eyes
that are only half-closed,
this perfect moment,
is not for me to reach out and touch,
I know I would turn to ice should I save the rain
the final waltz.

Elegy for Living Ghosts

You died in this nursing home
now they are removing every trace of you,
(your creations, your possessions, your smell)
making room for the next one,
who will know you only by reputation;
the stories people tell of you.
kind or otherwise.
Soon, the storytellers too will pass on
to their next world,
taking their memories of you with them.

The past returns to haunt us occassionally
in the form of an old song,
one of those you used to sing,
loudly, joyfully, off-key.
Although I can't see you,
you will always be waiting, smiling
Where you always used to wait,
smiling, for nothing in particular.

Soon, my memories too will mean nothing here,
except to the people I have told my stories to.
The precious metal they carry
is the key to the past.
As long as they remember,
the can never
fully remove you.

Poetry Out of a Pop Song

(with apologies to Margaret Atwood, Walt Whitman, Aimee Mann, Ben Folds & Die Cheerleader)
She was writing, I know,
about the gradual end of actuality
winding down with
a bang and a whimper
but no remorse
none of that
foot and door
crying on the floor
Baby, please don't go
She knows exactly how she'll live without you
And won't even give you
the passionate accordance
of a right hook to the chin
Her neural dishes remain intact
with the poultice of superglue
She pulled down onto them
after the time she let you
a little too close
and they ended up fragemented
And she's singing
"I should have known that it was coming down to this"
Another clever Mann/Brion twist
Cause you left her no choice in the matter
and now she's moved on
to the riot grrrl diatribes
but still has faith that
Fuck you, you'll have a life
And it's herself she's worried about
like it always has been
and she remembers when misery thrilled her much more
But this time I change the station
Cause I sing the browned-out body electric
to the same tune
about something that happened only in my mind
And "I should thank you almost"
cause I fucked it up
and I should've quit
and now circumstances have changed a bit

Monster

You talked of revolution
You talked of the monster
who points a finger
and calls you monster

Who is afraid and so gives you
the social amnesia they say we want
That you warned us of

You've mellowed out in your old age

And the monster you once rallied against
has anesthetized you, has lobotomized you, has hypnotized you
You blankly say "So what if you're angry,
suck up and be nice"
And only vaguely feel the pull of resistance
but can't recall why.
Old age brings wisdom only if you remember

And the monster you once rallied against
has gotten wiser; gained more of our collective identity;
Rebellion is marketable;
Resistance is cool,
now let the system outfit you for protest
only 59.95
if they dictate rebellion
they control
the only thing we thought we had
And you who realize
the monster is wrong
who can imagine it without its mask
Must never shut up
Must never forget
Must never give up

Pulse of the Streets

Through the palpitating veins
of the post-industral city
the train rolls through
the same as it did
when the trash heaps
used to be children playing:
at baseball,
at basketball,
at hope for the future
"I want to be..."
through their veins
pulses possibility

The children still
flow through the streets,
down past the river,
looking to Miss Liberty
through the trash heaps
that the past spat out
to cleanse itself of what's left
when the oil refineries
take what they want;
the filth that
worked itself in,
invading even
"I want to be..."

These new children,
newly christened
by the Hudson,
newly the pulse
of the street, the blood in the veins
of the post-industrial city
where "I want to be..."
flows down to them
through the powerlines,
through the phone line
crackles the whispers of liberty
above their heads

The children don't play
down by the river anymore,
where "I want..." has
turned into "I need..."
the trash heaps remain,
refuse from an
American dream,
and whisper their
post-industrial mantra
of remembrance:
The past won't go anywhere
until you look it in the face

The train rolls through,
down by the river,
past the trash heaps
and Liberty's backside,
rolls through,
like always, and
like always
keeps on going.

The Me In The Moon

Walking the moon's edge, balancing lightly,
A crescent of snow shaped with a dark knife.
Watch as an unwakeful earth silently
Weeps raindrops beyond my own silent life.
Another day gone lacks valid promise
Of anything to find in tomorrow
Except for the few, with every premise
To know there's something better than the sorrow
That wraps this night in a blanket of dearth.
It still invokes a strange serenity,
Guiding those few glows like those from warm hearth
They warm people near them, that's not me.
Can't we appreciate our own silent nights?
With me on the moon looking down at the lights.

Post-Amphibious

You're cheerful, even
as you dissect
my amphibious heart
with an indifferent scalpel
Which you haven't even bothered
to sharpen
and so it tears painfully
in silence
without any assistance
from a cleanly cutting remark
but I'm a guilty person
and so our bickering eyes
debate whose fault all of this is
I say all you had to do
was be there at the right moment
as I hopped on a reflexive dare
straight into the net you held
while your back was turned;
leaped into those innocent blue eyes
that plead the fifth, then guilty.
Here is my heart, here is my brain
preserve them in formaldehyde,
put them on your shelf
at this point I'd rather
be clinically dead to the world
than halfway there
It's only hanging out of balance
that the pain comes in.

Because A Does Not Equal Zero

an ever consoling hand holds the weight of a lamenting head
too much to think about.
Quadratic equations hide beyond the stone wall
part of her mind has spilled.
the threat of religion lurks over the next hill
the unicorn ponders her melancholy state
the fungi dance by
the tree is bare, nothing hidden
a casualty of having to tell everything
the sky is gray, but calm
this moment too meditative for rain
the hills connect to vanishing
carrying none with them
the fungi dance by
She is but a specter here
a figment of a subconscious mind
which has carried her here to unlosd those things too familar
hyperbolic crayons and cigarettes a remnant of that
the fungi dance by

Variations on Love and Water

so maybe love is like water
in that case we are two ships
sailing in opposite directions
but both into frozen indifference
which I thought was impossible
on a night like tonight
which we both consider perfect
the coldness is in the silence
building it's wall between us,
both waiting on the sky to open
like we know it wants to
sitting in silent anticipation
for rain to fall

so maybe love is like water
in that case we've been waiting
longer than all day
to be washed clear in the
comforting night rain
that could melt the wall of ice
we're building between us
the night goes on,
and the rain doesn't come

so maybe love is like water
and withholds from us
the release,
the enveloping warmth
of a spring rain
on a night like tonight:
gentle and embracing
fertile with promise
of growth
instead we sit in the night
in the air
which hasn't been dry
for a long time
with the rain hanging
over our expectations
over all those phrases
with "could" and "should" and "maybe"
over all those phrases
hanging onto the formal hope and doubt
and climbing back up over the edge
of the solid bank
away from the churning river

so maybe love is like water
rushing past all the scenery
blindly moving forward
in pursuit of more
maybe that's not love

so maybe love is like water
existing in different states
like the barren salt oceans
that I don't cry
like the sweet rain
that drips onto my face
reminding me I'm alive
trickling into my mouth
as I look up
like the frozen wall
we're still building up between us
and like the vapor hanging
in the spring air all around us
hinting at the flood
but promising nothing

A Dishwasher's Blood

Dishwashing is not as painless or innocent a task as one might think.
My hands, rough, covered in cuts and burns, scrubbed raw from the other side of steel wool
as I spy spots on a cutting board - red like the blood I have shed in an effort to make things clean
the hour I spent with a needle under my thumbnail,
trying to scrape out a piece of burned on oatmeal I had scraped out of a pan earlier that day,
my thumb involuntarily trembling in pain, like a small child before a shot
"It won't hurt a bit."
Do you know what it's like to have washing your hands,
the simple act of immersing your hands in warm, soapy water
degraded to an act of masochism, something you only do if you like pain?
To have a simple act like tying your shoe be made painful by something charred,
firmly stuck under your fingernail and making the rest of the finger tender?
To see your own blood touch a pan and have to wash it again?
Dishwashing is not as painless or innocent a task as one might think.

Bigger Lilies

Why are there vaults standing in rivers and trees?
There are parts in water and in earth
and how the tidepool lily tended by she
the bigger the lily, all fare so well for now
because the fiery pessimism will cause you to hunger
you, lord of a petrified people of the mountains
Now go to your code of gladness
change in you the venemous force,
the guise of a scorpion, the painted, the armed
To the discussion: �Or choose to take a change
with a little insanity,
a charging beast malraged like a cork about to spring from a bottle.

Collander

A collander, like a battle helmet,
battered and dented
and full of holes
staring up sadly
as you close the cupboard door,
an old soldier closes his eyes once more

Cooking Pot

About to erupt,
a frothing volcano
bubbling violently
threatening to spill over the sides
teasing you in its threat
casually throwing you a razzberry
before rising once more

While you were out

Starng though the smoke-encrusted glass
that has left a toaster treat in its white electrical hell
on the counter with the milk
in favor of a spark of that primal pyromania,
not so much the love but fascination and awe of fire
where knowledge is nothing
where you just stare at the magical consumption
as the flames spill towards heaven,
were all that matters is sustenance: keeping it burning
paying attention and nurturing it like a small child--
to feed it before it's silenced,
then to sit back and watch it grow on its own
To have to do anything so that it can do its thing
because without it we freeze
To be able to watch the translation
of destruction into light into life: rebirth
Not to try to fathom it and just accept it
and stare at it through the stained glass in awe
and watch from beneath
as the flames flow like water to the undefined surface

Crumpled

My toes frantically try to grip the image,
my half-conscious effort like a tougue
trying to stick to warm metal
the image fleeing
like an undiscovered lover as I wake,
I'm not ready to let go yet
Too real to have happened
But I'm too cold for it to have
too awake, and too alone,
still crumpled by bedsheets;
twisted, sweet, and mellow
I can taste them with my skin,
like air, no, too heavy for air
too real for me to be a little angel
wrapped in a warm, rainless white cloud.
Too awkward in the blanketed daylight
Hoping beyond reality
only to linger another minute
in the doorway between
these mutually exclusive worlds

Painting Yourself into the Night

You are the night
the stars streaming in your dark hair
You offer all the possibilities
of the night
(I am the mouse
living in the shadows of night
and the owl who preys on the mouse
In you I chase myself
endlessly in circles)
I can only offer
the set reality of the light
but continually
there is the choice
of the multiplicity of night
I can offer the safety
of set knowledge
of the day
Still you are the night
and you offer
the control of mystery
the control
and the moldable reality
that I can't

I have fallen

I have fallen
for someone
who talks so that
they don't have to say anything;
who moves me out of fear
who is too subtle to show
me anything
but the glare of meaning,
like glass blocking my eyes
I know he's there but I see nothing
when I look at him
except memories,
except my own self-doubt,
except my adoration of god knows what,
(or maybe doesn't)
except solitude,
except a quiet sadness that needs to be found
except a shyness hidden by the sure voice
except an unwilling receptor for my trust
except someone who very strongly resembles
the dance partner, the friend, the stranger, the confidant
from the vague tangible dream
I had last night
I see all of that in the slight reflection
of a pane of glass before my eyes:
all of that, but never simply him

I have fallen
like a mirror,
shattered into a tremendous number of
tiny razor shards, only countable
if you don't mind getting cut
if you don't mind me touching your blood
which after all is analogous to life:
Seven years bad luck
and all because I tripped
over an impasse that's as close as I come to love<
like a rock in the middle of the road.
I pick myself up
and go off to drown myself
in other people's words.
cummings reminds me of
what the end result has been:
I have fallen "in hate with love"
My blanketing dichotomy,
my newest mantra
to steer me away from the
whirlpool of the siren's song
so sweet like pop
but only with meaning enough
to drop my heart
only to hear it land
with an anti-climactic wet thump
when I so expected the same
aesthetic tintinnabulation I heard when
I tripped over the impasse in the road
which I now see can only be seen
in retrospect.

I have fallen
into the familiar uncomfortability
that I share with you.

I have fallen, you might say
into a sort of internal depression.
Is it enought for me to just
smile and pretend everything's alright?
That the villain's been vanquished,
like on a network show?
That resolution has been made
and we can all go to bed,
resting assured that shooting
the bad guy has made the world safe,
and history easily forgettable?
No, because the stories in life
don't fall that gracefully,
and neither do I.

I have fallen.

Not Like Them

for Huckleberry Finn and Edna Pontellier
Waking up on the eve
of the twenty-first
he looks at himself and sees
Not much changed in the time
since he was forced
back into his open cage,
just one degree too cold
to move like it's supposed to
filled instead with
things that refuse to change,
but prod him to instead
not that their prod leaves
very visible marks,
but also not that he can't feel
the metal on his skin,
making him
just one degree too warm
to be comfortable,
throat sewed up,
not able to speak,
or at least not as he likes
He shifts in the constriction
the zap hitting his system
each time he tries to loosen it
He reaches to loosen the necktie;
He reaches to loosen the shoelaces;
He reaches to loosen the clamp
on his mind;
they have been put there to keep him
solid (like them), unmoving (like them),
afraid (like them) of the change that
the so-said "metaphoric"
bend in the river
that tomorrow might bring. But he is not like them.
He looks out, his vision
constrained by the unmoving
edge of the window,
by the hardwood strips
in between the clear glass
He wonders momentarily
if this onerously burdened
overcoat would
allow him the movement
to break though to the outside.

It's the morning of the twenty-first
and he feels the weight of the
coins in his pocket, and braces himself
to stand but thinks abou their weight
and decides that it's not
worth it in this moment.
They haven't taken the moment
away from him yet.
The coins are metal too,
and melt in the pocket,
where it's too hot,
and re-form as a prod,
poking at him to stand up,
it's the civilized thing.
The moment gives back
it's echanting glance,
enough of the old impulse
that used to dictate his life.
Suddenly the coins are gripped
in his hand, then they are
through the window.
He inhales at last.
The coins are followed by
the tie and the coat and
whatever else can go
in the last of this moment.
Then out the window he goes
and for a moment it all moves,
then he hits the ground
it does not move
to soften his landing
But he ignores one last prod
and is gone again
to the place where everything
moves with the rhythm of time
and is stronger than the rocks
which hold it in,
for in the end, it shapes
the rocks themselves
and decides its own path.

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