JANE GEORGE
  • Author & Illustrator

...journal jane...

where I blog, sometimes

Then & Now: Verses for the Dark Moon

10/4/2013

0 Comments

 
PictureImage: astronomyonline.org
My tongue-in-cheek personal tag-line (yes, everyone should have one) is EQUALLY TWEE AND EVIL. And for all it's cheekiness, it's mostly true.

On this blog I'm usually silly, twee, whimsy-girl, which is my preferred state.  But I do possess a full range of being-ness, and this includes The Dark Side.  In honor of today's dark moon I bring you two poems. The first is from my lost days as a punk rocker. Be nice, I was nineteen, and this was before I had my sense of humor transplant. (Oh, and shhh, that's a secret.) A couple days ago I was unpacking boxes, shelving books, and came across my old diary, uncovering this gem. When I stopped laughing so hard I cried, I knew I had to share this goodness with the world. There are more gems in there. They're gonna stay in the vault.

The second poem, written today on the fly and not nearly as unintentionally funny as the first one, deals with a recent sojourn wherein my creative work was put aside for an important calling. This is why I haven't been around. And that last, long-ago post wasn't exactly sweetness and light either. But like the moon, my life has entered a new phase. I am in a new house in the big city, and I am BACK, baby!

And now I curtsy and show you the dark side of the mirror, past and present. In a few days, I'll post something really super-twee as a chaser. I promise.

Then: 1981                                         Now: 

Picture
Four Inches From the Floor


Does anyone breathe
behind those black windows?
If anyone does,
they're sleeping,
four inches from the floor.

You don't have any money.
Pretend you're a writer.
Studio apartment.
Make believe you're an artist.
Paint your radiator with mushrooms.

Four inches from the floor.
Ain't it arty to be poor.
Dye the bedsheets black.
Hang in the window with a tack.

Does anyone think
behind that black brick?
Old rice in the refrigerator.
Plastic dishes in the sink.
You can't leave the mattress.
Don't have any money.
Lay on the floor.
Think about writing.
It's so arty to be poor.
Studio apartment.
Paint your nails black.

Four inches from the floor.
Ain't it arty to be poor.
Dye the bedsheets black.
Hang in the window with a tack.

Go back to sleep.

Picture
I Know What You're Trying to Do, Jane

The dark moon remembers death, 
with your turtle-beak gasping breath.
Whimsy dances, further and further,
growing up, growing away,
blown by my fetid depression-breath,
which reminds me of your infection,
and how it filled the room.

Lifted, shoved, you through the door;
what was mortal clung for more.
Purpose fell, deeper and deeper,
fading slow, fading to light,
called by those on that far shore,
who remind me I am your guide;
you told me they were rude.

The new moon rekindles fire,
sparks my dreamy life's desire.
Horror rots, weaker and weaker,
growing up, growing into,
fed by the beauty of the light-briar,
which reminds me we are so much more,
and many more at once.

As I stow the lantern, take up the pen, 
I hear your voice.
You didn't know you would be this happy.

 
0 Comments



Leave a Reply.

    Picture
    AVAILABLE NOW
    Picture
    AVAILABLE NOW
    Picture
    AVAILABLE NOW
    Picture

    Archives

    July 2016
    June 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    September 2015
    August 2015
    May 2015
    April 2015
    November 2013
    October 2013
    June 2013
    May 2013
    February 2013
    January 2013
    December 2012
    November 2012
    October 2012
    September 2012
    August 2012
    July 2012
    June 2012
    May 2012
    April 2012
    March 2012
    February 2012
    January 2012
    December 2011
    November 2011
    October 2011
    September 2011
    August 2011
    July 2011
    June 2011
    May 2011
    April 2011
    March 2011
    February 2011
    January 2011
    December 2010

Written Material and Art Copyright Jane George All Rights Reserved.

  • Author & Illustrator