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Sylvia’s figs

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story.

“From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out.

“I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

—Sylvia Plath (1932–1963), The Bell Jar, 1963

Slam–bang

there is a big hospital nearby
there are several, fairly nearby
fortunately, I don’t need one
right now —
but I’m grateful to be close to them,
that they’re close to me, just in case

so are the firefighters
and the grocery stores
and post offices
and best of all, libraries!

and
a whole lot of people —
for better or worse

all because I live in a big city

it’s convenient —
and it’s annoying

It’s 4:47 a.m.

three hours ago, the windows vibrated
under a circling police helicopter

a few minutes ago
the clattering A/C
that needs to be fixed
jolted me awake

I dozed back off —

this time it was a stray cat
there are so many of them;
I know them all by name —
Old Lived-In Orange Tom
Marked-Ear Kitten Gone Fat
Dirty-White Tuxedo Guy —
some of them like to jump up
on the sill, be loud, cause trouble

this morning, interrupting my dream,
it was Scraggly White Gray-Heart-Nose
yowling, prowling, howling, meowing

That’s it! just can’t get back to sleep
may as well get up, even though I’ve only
had maybe 5 hours — five disturbed hours.

it’s still dark out, and for the first time
in several months it’s noticeably cooler
outside than inside, even with the air on
and the just-past-full moon is up
she’s bright and snuggling with Mars —
Venus, Sirius, Orion, all shining for everyone
and for no one in particular

I step out of my front door, lock it,
and am not even out of my own driveway
before a car speeds by, knocking me over
with its noxious old-car gas fumes
and buck-the-system black exhaust

I look up at the sky, what I can see of it —
nearly every house has bright lights on
shining directly into my eyes, and the
street lights — piercing, glaring, persistent

I’ve made it almost next door
someone is out smoking, I can’t see them
but I smell the strong nasty smoke
and cover my nose with the COVID mask
from my pocket — odd, in my youth
I used to love breathing in the scent
of cigarette smoke — thought it was sexy
now it chokes, it offends, it irks

onto the next block, another smoker,
invisible too — do tobacco lovers hide
in the shadows on purpose?
my grandmother used to do that;
after she told everyone that she quit
we accidentally caught her smoking
on the dark side of the house, but
we didn’t let on — it’s hard to let go of
our addictions — shadows let us hold on

second house in on the second block
a big way-louder-than-legal motorcycle
leaving its driveway, its rider doesn’t see me;
I stand aside and wait as it roars out & away

it’s not even freakin’ 5 a.m., folks. on Saturday!
I came out here for quiet, fresh air, skygazing,
a pleasant walk in cool early-morning “solitude”
but the air stinks, there are so many lights —
oh, and did I not mention all the irritating
sensor lights that pop on unexpectedly
into my face, just when I think I’ve found
a nice dark-house reprieve — bam! — they’re like
the damn ads and email newsletter pleadings
on nearly every modern web site —
catching you unawares, blocking the
entire screen, at the cursor’s slightest
sign of movement — blinding us
like all the sensor lights, blocking
our enjoyment of whatever else it is
that we were trying to do

third house in, second block
the rooster. someone’s backyard city-rooster:
I look at my watch, a 5:00 crow on the dot.

I try to stop being annoyed
try hard to focus on the positive
try to figure out which dim little star
is above Venus, it must be one in Leo —
that’s my husband’s sign

my husband, still sleeping. heavy sleeper.
sleeping 8–9 hours straight through
nearly every night, it’s his superpower
I kinda hate him for it —
if I get more than 5 to 6 hours, and
waking several times at that, it’s a
miracle. light, light sleeper, I am.
I want to sleep, I try to sleep. I can’t.

my husband, who even though he’s sleeping
I already know exactly what he would say
about my quandary, my HSP city annoyances:
— Sleep in later.
— Just stay indoors.
— Join a gym and walk on the treadmill.

he just doesn’t get it. never has.
Flash! another sensor light in my face —
Screw it. for the first time ever,
I’ve given up on my morning walk.
it’s only been a few minutes
and the weather is gorgeous!
but I am going back inside.
How can people live like this?
with so much constant noise
and so many bright obscuring lights
and so damned much artificial stink

heading back around the corner to my house, I hear
the mini-siren warning bloop of a mile-away ambulance —
did I mention that I live close to a hospital?

Terri Guillemets

Golden moments

i don’t care how rough a day i had
when i see the golden hour sunset
painting the trees with happy light
and feel a cool breeze on my face—
all is suddenly and magically reset
heart and mind cleared of burdens
—so the gratitude has a place to be

Terri Guillemets

A curious glimmering thing

“Time has proved that the function of poetry is not to impart messages, but to explore the depths of emotion.

“The poet is never a teacher, but always a learner. His poem is a venture at perilous discovery. The fact of writing is not the recording of something already known to the poet; it is his method of bringing to the light things that were previously in darkness for him.

“The aim of poetry is to capture those rare moments of the poet’s experience when, for good or for evil, the consciousness of life sweeps through him like a flame… the moments when he becomes passionately aware of the crises of his spirit’s secret drama, and sees a pattern taking shape in the void, and words of utterance come singing to his lips.

“Out of that dizzy instant he emerges, bewildered but excitedly hopeful, bringing with him his poem. Here, he says, is a curious glimmering thing that I discovered far down in the sea of my dimly conscious spirit:  perhaps it will have a fascination for you, too; perhaps you, too, will see in its pale sphere some hint of the iridescent lights that played on its surface when in those vast deeps I found it.”

—Arthur Davison Ficke (1883–1945), “The Nature of Poetry,” 1926

Fading in

i am naked and spinning
unmasked and repenting
wasn’t i just fourteen
mere unwound hours ago
i breathed, i sang
a lyric or two, loudly
in my quiet voice —
cycled through colors
found beautiful hues
my butterfly wings
cripplingly morphed
to chrysalis again
— reflect retread —
growing wisdom in my head
thrust out the blonde hair
and that all the new
is gray matters not —
focus is a summit reached
rock bottom at the top
perimenopausal paradox —
if someone would listen
if anyone would care
from up here or down there
the invisible i have become
could unhide everted —
but what has burned out
is not the heart soul
bones mind or gut but
only the brittle shell
of youth — falling apart
shedding and crumbling
finally wasting far away
leaving a glowing
blossom unsplayed —

Terri Guillemets