Poetry from Jessica Delgado

Blood Drift

I.

Comfort me in the time of hour

At a time of utter loss

That I see thy face as a partial flower

Pure and mighty were thy words

In a storm they have caressed me

Now triumph over me in a world unheard

The place in which you now reside

Somewhere I can not imagine

Can never replace the place in which you took when you were alive

O take me now I plead on your bed

The bed of which you are now Queen

But in that instant, I felt fury instead

For the sake of the innocent of which

To spare all thoughts of feelings I can not say

Like a Frankenstein, I must now stitch

II.

You, who mighty like a stream

Powerful and yet sometimes passed by

Now reside only within my dream

I can not shake the idea of blood shed

For even those who do not consider who you are

And think far forward for when I lay my own head

Down into an eternal peaceful sleep

Goodbye to those who once caused me sorrow

All hopes that my sufferings you will keep

In a day or two perhaps you will shed

Not a tear but some skin of your former self

As the feelings of deception sink you down like lead

A day where unlike all the others

A day is both blessed and cursed

You cry out for your own, dear mother

III.

In a stance, in a room

Where you lay all alone

Constantly seething at the thought of thy doom

In which justice takes all

For you, who know little of it

And turns your face to the almighty wall

Of God, a God who unlike yours

Is all in all an idea you have lost

Will one day see you for how you have lured

The idea of lust and lot in your life

Your children exist no more

And instead this selfishness that you now strife

And even now you take her as your wife

The pig of which you fail to acknowledge corrupted you

And taken you by the horns with a needle and a knife

IV.

The vein in your arms are solemnly seen

The raw etched leather tears

Your veins have now turned into streams

Of drugs in which you can not deny

You are hooked I see it

You have lost all sense in your eye

The visual sense which you use so clearly

You see it and yet, still say nothing

To long to be by your children- to even be near me

In that courthouse of which you longed to stray away from

It is cold, yes, but not as cold as you

Still you bargain and plead for your family to come

To stay by your side-

Oh what a lovely father!

When in all reality we could have always died

V.

I take it now that you are gone, and feel no need

How could you in years of time

To see how it was you that made us all bleed

Ah yes, the dark sensation of blood

The vein in your arms are solemnly seen

The raw etched leather tears

Your veins have now turned into streams

Of drugs in which you can not deny

You are hooked I see it

You have lost all sense in your eye

The visual sense which you use so clearly

You see it and yet, still say nothing

To long to be by your children- to even be near me

In that courthouse of which you longed to stray away from

It is cold, yes, but not as cold as you

Still you bargain and plead for your family to come

To stay by your side-

Oh what a lovely father!

When in all reality we could have always died

VI.

I take it now that you are gone, and feel no need

How could you in years of time

To see how it was you that made us all bleed

Ah yes, the dark sensation of blood

You a vampire but not even Dracula could care for you

It all took over like the rush of the flood

And still you laugh, you sing, you smile

And how awful that smile really is

And beg and plead that you need to escape for a while

But it was not you who threw us about the walls

No-in court- you are almighty

And tore us down with your never ending calls

To take the lives of those in need

Your own family, the blood of which you share

And for that, to you, I no longer take heed.

Hospital Visit

don’t quite remember the whole visit;

was it even all real?

I was too high on narcotics, too tired from lack of sleep, and in too much pain to care.

I remember walking in: The Body Oh, the body I didn’t see the face I didn’t see the color All I saw was The Body Already, I was paranoid:

Was I in another dimension?

Was that my body?

I remember sitting down- stares- The lady is confused, and my mother tried to help her out I use the bathroom- good lord not THAT stall A body could have been there Dead, twitching, crooked, gray Someone’s grandmother, aunt, Someone with or without a home

A Body

I use the other, and return outside Someone is crying Oh my god – why? Did they see A Body? Who was it? What could it have been? Could I be next? I am called, but -sorry, mother- you are not allowed in Oh, its the nurse from the time I was Rescued { I Remember You- You Almost Died That Night!- Yeah, Those Kids Down The Road Before You; All Gone} Three Bodies The nurse working on me is too quick, I am too medicated I dare not tell him to slow down Another nurse smiles at me At last, some showing of grace I walk back, walk alone It is cold I am alone in the small room There are nurses The one witch- black brows, thinly drawn on; the one who eventually smiles at me, but constantly wears an expression as if to say

“thank god i’m not her”-

The kids coming in and out yelling to their mommies What’s wrong with her? The only child Who sees me in the hall

The hall of the sick The mentally unstable

The soon-to-be-deceased Who embraces me And kindly asks If I am a Princess In the middle of her curse I lie down and look to the right of me Its her The one I feared from the moment I stepped in She is in a room Lightly hooked up She is gray There is, quite frankly, no hope for her She is dying I look up to the ceiling The dirty, dingy man in front of me complains Its too loud for him He is dehydrated Annoyed I quite agree. A girl and her- who is he; who knows. Temporary boyfriend?- Wait for some tests I look to the right She is gone The nurses shut the door But really, what’s the use The door clicks The nurses move quickly There is no hiding it She’s dead Is it for respect? Or to strain from stirring people like me into a panic so they don’t have to do all the work of dealing with me?

After all, They Pay For The Dead I stop looking Back to the ceiling Everything hurts But I try to sink into myself I look again There she is When did she take her last breath When did she think her last thoughts When did she decide That it was time to go Finally, as if in a sad and pathetic pre-precession They wheel her in; to wheel her out A white sheet, a black holey veil

A Body

I vaguely remember going back The technician spoke French I remember being hurt turning this way and that Everything hurt I come back I count the bodies Her room has now been occupied I remember no conversation with the doctor My mother comes back She’s pissed, as usual Screw the nurse; screw the doctor I return back to the car I am just another body.

Why Care about English? 

As an English major and theater nerd, I tend to get this a lot, alongside “How will you make money?” and “Why don’t you get a real career?” and all are some of the most frustrating questions to answer. For one, it is too complex and personal to explain in a simple manner of conversation. For another, it deeply questions my integrity and intelligence not only as a writer, but also as a person; in simple terms, I feel really thrown off and disrespected by it.

While studying for a Midterm (which is a course on Language and Cultures, I found an important quote about this:

Language is central to the success of a culture. It is the most important way we learn our culture in the first place- and it is how we pass that culture on. To truly understand another language is to truly understand the culture it represents. And that’s a monumental task”.

Alright, so much like the body of a paragraph, this quote goes in order of importance, so I will attempt to dissect it:

(1.) What exactly is the success of a culture? Most of us may consider it to be supportive, allow its members to express themselves however they wish without harming themselves or others, and to eventually seek and find their own version of happiness. However, there is a more scientific and perhaps anthropological (thank you Professor Broyles) sense in how I see success, especially for an entire culture: survival. And how do most cultures survive? Through some sort of language; in this sense, English allows writers and people who appreciate the beauty of the written word to continue to thrive.

(2.) With language, it is a literal reflection of s specific place in the world and how they view everything around them. But let’s think about it in realistic terms: Whenever people travel, what is usually the first thing they try to figure out? Language! Thus, we are determined to understand how they function in a society different from our own and in essence verbally capture everything they may have already been through. This is an important part of why English is so vital- it is a never ending cycle of how people in different time periods use it, and why those changes happen to figure out what the world looks like. If this weren’t true, there would be no such things as the “classics”, which perfectly exemplify what I’m talking about: a gateway to the imagination and a historical overview of what it may have been like at a certain point in time.

(3.) This is the most important part of all this “writing stuff” : it is a monumental task The English language, for all those who use it and appreciate it, is taken very seriously and carrying the weight of ones world (and sometimes the worlds of other people) in everything that we write is no easy job. So when I hear people asking about money, and why I care about writing at all, I always keep this in mind: that as cut throat as the writing industry may sometimes be, there is a much larger task at play. As a writer, I see words and experiences as huge pieces of unwritten stories that fit together with enough patience and effort. Perhaps it is my young ambition that makes me feel this way, but writing is so much more than just what is written on the page: it is a painstaking process, much like that of a seamstress working on an elaborate costume, or a doctor performing surgery- everything must be pieced together just right, or else it just won’t work.

I’ve read a good number of articles on the subject of why people write, and most seem to seal the coffin on how insensitive and rude some people can be towards writers, theater nerds, and English majors whenever they speak of how much they love being involved within the communities. I think, though, that it is important to see the English language as a critical correspondent of how we live and why we perceive the world the way that we do. Personally, I prefer the darker and more macabre aspects of life, and is- obviously!- why I like writing about it so much. It is this healthy pressure to continue to create something new and make people really think about themselves that makes intrigues me the most; and in the darker side of writing, the questions of the self, of others, and of the world continues to come into play. Why are Dracula, Frankenstein, and Ms. Havisham such “villains”, and even more so, who are the real monsters? These type of questions that normally freak other people out continue to draw me in, and always make me attempt to answer them in my endless amounts of theories and stories.

So for those who question why English and writing is important, I hope you can take a new outlook on this lifestyle; and for the warriors of writing who will undoubtedly continue to hear these types of questions and remarks, don’t worry: there are plenty of other things to think about.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.