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Posts Tagged ‘relationships’

Yesterday I received a copy of my fathers last will and testament in the mail as is a required part of the probate of his estate. I won’t go into the contents publicly, but it brought the loss once again very much to mind, as well as the years of absence we both endured from each other.
 
I found this beautiful, sad poem written by one of the best young poets I have found in quite some time, Warsan Shire. It brought a needed calm to me, as it embraced the emotions I feel as well.
 
 
Backwards
by Warsan Shire,
 
for Saaid Shire
 
The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.
He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life;
that’s how we bring Dad back.
I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole.
We grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear,
your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums.
I can make us loved, just say the word.
Give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,
I can write the poem and make it disappear.
Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass,
Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place,
maybe she keeps the baby.
Maybe we’re okay kid?
I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love,
you won’t be able to see beyond it.
You won’t be able to see beyond it,
I’ll rewrite this whole life and this time there’ll be so much love.
Maybe we’re okay kid,
maybe she keeps the baby.
Mum’s body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place,
Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass.
I can write the poem and make it disappear,
give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,
I can make us loved, just say the word.
Your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums
we grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear.
I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole,
that’s how we bring Dad back.
He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life.
The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.
 
Warsan Shire, “Backwards.” Copyright © 2014 by Warsan Shire.
 
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I express myself with words

Dunno why, but that’s what I’ve

Always done.  Always wanting

To be heard no matter what but

At other times too timid to speak up. Not

That I fear my words irrelevant, quite

The contrary. (That’s the problem!)

Sometimes the burn to be heard

Is too strong and the words simply fall off

And all that’s left

Is sheer frustration

Other times it’s whatdafuck you obviously don’t

Want to hear so why bother when we both know

I’m right (although in some spot, I know you are)

 

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I hear your voice, talking to the plants

As the morning sun washes the herbs on the windowsill

You’ve always talked to the plants,

A nurturing, motherly habit of nature,

But you’ve always said, “It’s practical, they grow

When they know they’re loved”

I look up from my papers,

Watching you move as if for the first time,

The robe flowing gently over your curves,

The seamless flow of hand and thigh,

The brown hair, shining in the morning sun,

The smile I had fallen for, now almost forgotten.

You look up and notice me watching and fall silent,

The smile disappears,

Your back turns to me,

And I’ve grown to hate those herbs.

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