July 2011
11 posts
Opera meditations, - Sian S. Rathore
Three intervals describe the reanimation of
the dead. I almost saw it in the theatre lights, their
shadows. The creases in the curtains. I remembered
that I hadn’t done my laundry or written back. I
resolved to make a note. A vibration in the air
from a shrill cell. Like paddling in cold water.
Every pebble edged and sublime. The
unaccountable night. After the opera I swore at the...
Yesterdays thoughts, - Sian S. Rathore
The space in-between two paintings in a
diptych seems infinite. Brushstrokes
peaked in acrylic mountains. The ticket in my pocket
folded so many times it has become a sculpture. A
cufflink still rattles around in my purse, you have the
other one. You have never asked for it back. When
you left me I lived in parallel worlds.
"Life?", He Asked - Sian S. Rathore
LIFE
Whatever life gave him in Dix’s clunky car he breathed in through gray mushroom clouds
And The Daytime Television Here Is Dull, Not Like Home “when are you coming back?” precarious like the solder’s flame “I didn’t mean it darling” a disease from Red America How did it get All The Way Here? civil, he said yet keeping still. videos flicker in the moonthink like...
A Letter To Grief (via @PoetryFoundation)
Oh GOD I’m getting so sick of you not being around.
It’s not even funny anymore, it’s not even fun or sarcastic or ironic. I can no longer cope with your absence, it’s ridiculous how much I miss you. I long so badly for the days when you were just there, like some teddy bear in the cupboard, like some 45 record, all scratched and reluctant but constant, dear, but constant....
Waiting For A Letter - Sian S. Rathore
I dreamt of it arriving
before it did, someone will have to wait
for me
quickly, everything drained of life
mill-smoke from the chimneys blowing sideways
in the morning
this is not real
this well with
no water, round, with its wet walls
and shivering algae hair
the air smells damp
it’s nice down here
the bucket is lowered with utmost care
I am freezing cold.
I think I stopped...
Summer - Sian S. Rathore
heavy. pressure-clouds. capsuled spaces what’s this week’s new disaster rain, rain, rained upwards from the ground slate shone grey allotments starved then at once sodden we drank cider with the chickens i cried about it. one more dramatic outburst, one more woman with a knife never asking me, never telling but assuming how to pepper me before slaughter i still eat my steak pretty...
Some old writing I just found
“I can taste aftershave in my mouth which is peculiar because I’m sure I never ate any this morning when I was shaving. Did I? Do I do that now? At work I’m sure I never let the cleaver fall onto my silly little white hand and there wasn’t any blood but I feel weak, today. I feel pale, I feel anaemic and I want to lie down somewhere. She said “I don’t want just to lie in bed, I want to lie...
