that is what I am

(perpetually)

My thoughts race

to a finish line

no one else can see

because

I do not enjoy

the works of those

who describe

the Human Condition

in too graphic of terms,

preferring, rather,

the ones who may cloak it in shades of blue and innocence,

fleeting wisdom,

unshaded contours that are no less deep,

occasional irony that sears with greater potency,

who tip-toe around it as if it were sly and mercurial,

a sometimes kind,

often cruel,

little creature–

for that is what it is.

when even those

with restless souls

must rest.

When they must lay aside

their want

to seize

a golden quiet

I never thought

I could so clean

give up the fire

burning

But even warmth

can grow too hot

if it burns the one

who trusts it

and the cool, if checked,

that calms her down,

can soothe the one who loves it.

My heart is a house

and sometimes a home

with memories for rooms

and floors of gem tones.

You took charge of the place,

like a merchant or king

residing there, sweetly

this place as your thing

Sometimes these walls forsake me.

I get lost in the halls

I thought to command there,

having built them, myself

You filled the chambers with light

and with sound and with might

But your leaving left little

You robbed what was rich,

burnt the home,

made a ditch

Nothing can hurt me; I’m invincible—
Unstoppable—
Untouchable.

But other days, I wake up missing you.
(And you can be nothing but gone.)

They say you live on in my heart—
but my heart’s lonely,
and you feel gone.

Photo by Deborah Stokol, 2005.

There are times I tire of salt and the sea.
My eyes, unblinking, sting from too much sun.

Warden, omen, object of love,
sometimes I’d rather follow behind
than face ahead.

Photo by Deborah Stokol. Barcelona, Spain. 2007.

In this Purple Midnight the hours swallow
me whole. like the holes they make of stars
in the witching hour.

Maybe it should be called the twitching hour
because I can’t lie still.
shiver me timbers and show me the dark
I wish I could find my slumber.

My eyes rove around like tourists.
they don’t know where they are or what they
want.

They blink themselves wider because
they can’t close

flounder and trout rear up like curious
horses in a copper river and a silver sea.

Conjure me a soul mate, and I’ll conjure
you a soul.The price we pay to sleep at
night is a visit to the dream mole.

We throw ourselves off cliffs, sure we’ll
find the answer, but where is the sleep,
for a lone wanderer, wandering deep,
in this purple midnight.

Also the background to a dance piece performed in 2006 at UC Berkeley and published in Stonecutters 2002 and Poetry.com.

Photo by Margot Stokol. Montreal, Canada. 2008.

There are some days I wake up
clinging to my dreams.
And I don’t mean like big dreams,
Or big scenes, haloes, or
‘misty mountain tops.’
But those residues that lie
Only to recede when
I first regain consciousness.

Sometimes I dream in music.
With music. Of music. I’ve played.
Am playing, have not yet written.
may never write.

I dream in color. There are soundtracks
To films that play only within me.
I speak languages I know.
Once knew. Have forgotten.
Never learned.

Dreaming before sleep
But not in class
Is neither impossible
Nor unheard of.
Sometimes the visions
I give myself
Before rest
Are, quite simply,
The best.
And then I cling to those too.
But I can’t help falling asleep eventually.

I dream of you in blue.

Your eyes twin pebbles dappled with sun.
Your curls form shells that make no sound
when I hold them to my ear.

I like that when you write
You write with neither pain nor glory.
Maybe things are better that way

When I think of you, I am not productive.

I like to travel in my mind.

Sometimes,
I take you with me.

(We reach Inverness from Morocco
And navigate through old towns)

You are a prolonged poem
Written only in metaphor

Photo by Deborah Stokol. Santiago de Compostela, Spain. 2007

My friend once said,
that you could play
a fiddle–
‘til it got rusty
let it lay low—
‘til it got dusty
and that you could play it—
in the sun.
And that THAT
was the difference
with no other differences,
between a fiddle—
and a violin.

-Deborah Stokol & Emily Adams