Today I thought I would live forever. The man I thought I would marry lives in Cambodia now. His mother wrote to me this morning.
She texted me a prayer. She is eighty years old. There are millions of refugees in Sudan. That won’t change overnight. My mother made a birthday cake for a vagrant. My father is eighty. Trump is president of America. My sister is Europe. All my letters, she never reads them. All my love for her is returned to me. This broken clock and silence is all that I have. The hours that stretch before me and behind me is all that I have. My parents love. A niece and nephew. Other mother’s children is all that I have. The memory of wildflowers in your eyes is all I have. You are the sun. You have replaced the energies of the man who was going to play “Husband” in my life. You and your brother.
I have never felt more alone. I spent the morning with my father and the child. She is a bundle of tireless energy and novel words. One day I will not be enough for her and she will seek out the world. Perhaps men, older men in the same way that I did when I was in my twenties in Johannesburg. I think of my mental illness. My dream of becoming a poet that came true.
You are exceptional. You are extraordinary except you are not my daughter, you are not my son. You, C., are a teenager now. It’s been a year since I’ve seen you. We spoke once on the phone. You sounded happy. I miss you. Our long talks and our conversations. You making spag bol in the kitchen the way your mother taught you or making grilled cheese sandwiches when there’s nothing in the house to eat. You grew up in this house but those days are over. Long gone.
I don’t think of V. as intensely as I once did. How fleeting and temporary grown-up happiness is. Daddy is eighty. Mummy is slowly catching up to him.
I am the woman who was married to a soldier for an eternity, and didn’t even know it.
I have forgiven you already. Do you, can you understand that at your tender age? And now I am waiting for the return of that. That you forgive me. When the man of your dreams meets someone else you begin to wonder and try to justify what you saw in him in the first place. You begin to think to yourself how quickly perfection was ruined, summer afternoons talking, sharing, listening to each other but that of course it is going to be alright. You tell yourself that you will meet someone else. It becomes non-negotiable but it is not as easy as it looks. You think you have a connection with every person on this planet but that is not true.
It is important for you to meditate. Apostle Paul says, “Pray without ceasing”. Your loneliness appears on the surface to be the same as mine. I remember your breath inside my body. It was a declaration. It commanded the day, the light shining through the glass of the window. Things were not as they seemed. I called it love in my spirit, then falling in love, then it was done. Finished. The divine power that began the journey of us ended and then the prosperity removal of struggle and despair from my life began.
I often wonder if you are lonely. Are you as miserable as I am? Do you suffer from clinical depression? Do you seek help from a therapist? When I am dead no one will remember me. Not my smile. Not my soul. Not my laughter. Not my spirit in this room or the heart that I carry in daylight. I write a poem and turn it into a personal essay, much later, I turn it into a prose poem, even later, I take it apart, deconstruct it.
We ate lamb shanks for lunch with white rice that honoured my worth and mashed potato that overflowed with abundance. My brother ate his with an open bottle of beer near his plate. I watched the details of him eating, taking it all in. My brother complained that the rice was soggy. It was not to his liking. I looked at his tired, sad and handsome face as he lit up a cigarette standing at the kitchen door.
I eat cheese curls with my mother as she sits across from me. How can I still be in love with someone who ignores me, I say? Well, that’s your fault, she says. Everything is my fault.
In the evening I pray for my family, purging the shroud, the children that are the light of my life, the supernatural instinct and as my body changes shape with time I move forward into an unknown future, flowing streams of enlightenment in the natural, in the flow and ebb of the tunnel of my consciousness. I rotate these living tools for growth and energy with ease.
I will always carry you like I carry the clouds in the sky that day that you left me. I remember that night. I know it like I know the subtleties, nature and the backs of my hands. I can still taste the moonlight at the curve of the back of my throat. The pink light of its cave that develops each time I open my mouth. Yes, I know you and will carry your secrets with me for a lifetime in every fold of my clothing tenderly just because I feel that is what you deserve.
Deconstructing Elmo
I am on the path to enlightenment. The path of inner knowing. Truth leads to inner power, teaches us about knowledge, the preparation and discernment of goals, a declaration of hope and spiritual reality and awareness. Trust in God. He is the absolute deliverer. The spirit is one of the resources of the universe that leads us to our values. Mother Mary is a poignant image, as is the angel Gabriel. I look at the woman, at her slender body, her slender fingers, her open mouth, a gaping hole, a leaf, a wound, her legs and thighs as sturdy as branches, yes, I look at the woman, my sister, my mother, M.’s mother, all three of them beautiful, stared at by men with adoration, and I wonder to myself have they ever felt pain like I have felt pain. You see, I don’t think they have felt pain. I have never been desired like they have been desired. I have never felt the desire, carried a child in my womb for nine months. I think that it’s going to be ok not being in this cold, cruel world amongst people who do not love me or who show any love, care or concern for me. The child who is not my own sleeps next to me. Elmo is on the screen but I have no appetite for Elmo, Cookie Monster and Big Bird. I am determined that I would have moved with grace in the world if I had been loved.
Afterword: I was struck by the turn of phrase used in a standard year-end recounting of those recognized persons who have passed away this year and it started me thinking about what else has been lost, some things perhaps irretrievably, and what might come to pass. Are we entering a liminal time?
Also, The British Economist in their “On language” feature just has published its word of the year for 2024, it is kakistocracy. Here is the concluding paragraph: “Kakistocracy has the crisp, hard sounds of glass breaking. Whether that is a good or bad thing depends on whether you think the glass had it coming. But kakistocracy’s snappy encapsulation of the fears of half of America and much of the world makes it our word of the year.”
Because the women’s population is not equal in size
There are some countries
Where the women
Must get married at the age of seven
Because their families are so poor
There are some countries where the men
Stay with their families
Cannot fulfill their dreams
And they lose their courage
There exist men
Who love women
But the women do not care about their feelings
There exist men
That keep secrets
And they get upset
When they are asked
To show their true self
They don’t know who they are
There are some countries
Where a few women
They love and dream for a perfect romance
But the men they love
They don’t show any interest
There are some countries
Where the men
Beat the women
Or murder them
Because they went to super market
Without escort
They exist men
That meet women
But they do not have a relationship
Because their families
Do not approve that specific woman
So they go away
There are countries where a couple
Can be in love
And just see each other
Only from distance.
There are some men
They stay silent
They say white
And black every day
They are afraid of love.
There are some men
That keep their feelings hidden
For years
Until one day
They get old
And they discovered
What they lost…
There are some men
That love money
More than women
And they are closed doors to love.
Love, is a free path
An energy that can realize so many wishes
Love is for the believers..
Love is for the strongest hearts
Looking for a country
Where men and women
Will live in harmony
Surrounding themselves
Only with love and hugs
Looking for this country….
Eva Lianou Petropoulou Lianou
ANALYSIS
Eva Lianou Petropoulou’s poem, “Relationships,” delves into the complexities of human connection across diverse cultural and societal landscapes. It paints a poignant picture of the challenges, hopes, and dreams associated with love and relationships. The poem underscores the impact of gender inequality on relationships, particularly in societies where women are marginalized or subjected to restrictive norms. It highlights the role of cultural expectations in shaping romantic relationships, often leading to compromises and sacrifices.
The poem explores the pain and frustration of unrequited love, where one’s feelings are not reciprocated. It delves into the fear of vulnerability and the reluctance to express genuine emotions. The poem highlights the suppression of desires and the subsequent regret. The poet yearns for a world where love and understanding prevail, free from societal constraints and personal insecurities. It emphasizes the importance of strength and belief in the power of love to overcome obstacles.
The poem employs vivid imagery to evoke strong emotions and create a sense of empathy. The concept of “country” symbolizes different societal and cultural contexts. The repetition of certain phrases emphasizes key themes and creates a sense of rhythm.
David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.
My turn now terrorist. The 5th storey of one of my inanities. S. For a longer time, i Broastered i was the doctor of all passable abstract landscapes. H and i thought crime the ingrate figure nine of modern painting. And poetry were laughably ableist
Does a threat Centrelink these ids? Lets get covfefe are showing. Send in the feeling: kinda free.
The suicide towers are goners now, reduced to bloody trouble, along with all Hype of peas in our time.. the plane was to eat the rich…
Lions and tigers and bears o
My Self, im at my witty end, just listening to Let Lose The Reins by The Get Up Kids. With the west of my time, ill never be financially sober.
I slave away for the same Amurican Dream as anyone else: a three bed room terrorist house in Newtown, where its meaningless to eat Frank O’Hara.
So, who put the cannibals in the donation bin? It could have been John, he is like that, after all. Queerly, the whole can of coke with you thing is a get down.
Its well hot in the city. I smell like i mean it lots. I hope to be as criminal as any ism
Enter the cheat coat glistens. Am i to become as prolific as if i were Blomz? Or – terror loomed, a head.
Bonham Carter is up the stares across the road selling out of office jobs the purest myth in sydney. Im a false flag, this is friendly file under bling.
Ah, this Kmart on my back!! But why regret the Everlast in g sun? Petty cash.
Sometimes, in the Skye i see endless sandy sures covered with white, reJoycing notions. The stairs fell one by one into his ice and burnt
Tongue. I dont think, therefore i am the leased cult of all poets. I admiral you, beloved, for the traphouse youve set. Its like a fifth storey nobody reads about because the murder plot isnt over. It has an agent orange bet in it, more than the era can hold.
Yes. You and your fried from high skool word document the fall of men. I dont need your alchemical bromance.
And o, im so Glad the revolution’s *theyre. Stuck in a creative slum, im chasing a P. So, yes, im getting ample excise.
Made Marx: Fuhrer Road. No cents within sheets, but millions in the Streets.
I lie, therefore i am ashamed of my century. But i have m&ms, 8 mile. And the grace to be killed, and live off it as variously as plausible.
One of these days, there’ll be nothing left with which to venture capitalist forth. Interest rates rise like lions.
For shore my heat is boken. Let’s split
Up matthew flinders of self. Same. Lets get enraged asap.
