My Mother’s Sky

(Eileen (Lee Porter) Grayhurst 1930-2024)

The Death Journey

Space around the memories,

walking the cul-de-sac,

house to house, in a dream

where the small school stood and the field

is just the same where you linked arms

with your teacher and talked,

bright with your awakening into literature.

The trees are stronger, thicker-trunked,

living non-violent as they expand

and take up more ground.

Space from room to room and five hawks

fill the sky, then merge with the sky over the lake

and the vast line of clouds, changing temperature.

She drives her last car drive,

into this emptiness that does not hurt

but offers no comfort.

After the drive

the love in her blazes refreshed

as she sits in her lazy boy chair,

forgetting her sickness and old age,

blazes the whole scope of her magnificence,

strongest in her compassion.

This last journey we will have together.

We will overcome together until the end

and even then

there will be no ending, just a change,

space, I cannot fathom,

space added between us, space experienced

sometimes as a shedding of plumage,

sometimes, as a wasps’ nest touched,

accidental unbearable sting.

Before I remember

blank days, atheist days

that left me sombre-hard,

but these days

are brim with harrowing storms,

prayers and keepsakes infused

with intractable meaning, memories

ripe and revered as a newborn’s flesh.

Before, my soul was below, breaking

through the body regularly, in pieces,

but these days it sits on the surface,

intact, a glass sphere without protection,

thrown and rolling, like

a lightning fuse, cracked.

These days there are no pointed steps,

but each day is like the first sun rays seen,

heightening my energy to be as kind and capable

as possible as the bringing pulse lives in a jar,

is taken out of the jar, and dying takes its fill,

and death runs in circles around the dream

and everything within the dream

that is real and everlasting is quenched

when the days are these days

sober and groaning, rising

break-and-fall, cresting hard

with this shining golden sharp

hurt, breath-taking.

Tricky blood dripping

into upper wall cracks,

through the grout tracks

and into winter’s foreboding

months ahead.

How does it take so little to examine

the underside and know it is rotten,

flesh covered but disintegrating

underneath?

How many hands have to wash

at the same sink until the basin gets cracked

and the taps only release a trickle?

Tomorrow is today is

a slow-moving line bruised

with intensity and trauma,

clothed in brackets that shift then fall

then plateau before they fall again.

What seems unending

will end and when it ends

an ocean of emptiness will

consume. The dragon’s nest

will be disturbed and

heat will flow its lava-reach and hot depth

into the ordinary, the extraordinary

and everything in between.

This star is imploding into a vacuous

vacuum-suck and spiral break, spinal break

that breaks any chance for mobility.

When it ends it will be my end,

orphaned, no hidden curses, icons will be broken,

and saints will be laid bare, naked, exposed before God.

So end, my mother, but do not end,

be like a songbird blasting her song

before the sun even rises, glorifying,

and watch the heavenly bodies

surrounding, lifting your soul gently,

transforming you naturally

to breaststroke through

sun-bearing ridges

rising, dipping

divine dimensions.

The backside of the shadow

is awake, and losing ground again

burning in the sinkhole, into

a conclusion of harsh hard

cause-and effect.

Eyelids lower, sleep is never rest

but a patchwork horror-show

of violence and loss and things

once perfect, stolen

behind locked doors.

Underground, the circus continues

and I will never find my way out

of this mirrored maze.

I know that if I lie flat in the stark silence,

mortal eroding flesh is inevitable.

Extravagant love always has a price.

The price owed has been paid and I must leave

the turning circle, step past the fissure-groove

and sink into a faith abiding.

I will walk with you reckless

over this abandoned lake,

skipping across veiled skin ice,

thinning, seeing through, skipping,

and somehow never a crack will form

and never your toe nor my heel

falling through.

The smell of worms.

A feast that rages inside

the system-nerves, taking

the body to extreme outerspace,

thresholds of reason

and waiting in the death-year

the year of exhaustion – one day brushed

with energizing hope, and the next,

crumbled, withdrawn.

What is deception in this playing field?

What is an honest ascent that will also

echo into the roots and stay there?

The distance to carry this weighted reality

is unknown, the duty within it, and the love,

is immediate and unquestioning.

So I stay, pressed against the mountain,

pressed against this aching uncertainty.

Pressed and moving and mourning

each conversation, trusting

that the sharp pointed misery

will not pitch, that peace will expand

until peace overcomes.

Arrow stream

in between existences

splashing between shores,

forced to confront her ancient

criticism that has wrapped

my mind-frame and grown

a shadow as cumbersome

as a heavy chain.

This land she demands me to walk on

crowns me with gruelling labour,

hijacking my dignity and sense of equality.

It is a constant place of servitude merging

with guilt and a dismissal of my strength

and true worth.

This red line drawn is crossed over,

onto hot sands without sandals.

Mine is to give but not to neuter

my prayers – rage and pity colliding.

I will give but I will not have

my music reined and whipped

and tossed like a dusty bag

with the rest of the clipped toenails.

I will tell her what I cannot tell her,

by not owning her hierarchical demands

as I give, as I am placed within

this imprisoned place

as her sickness and drug-induced mania

takes control –

her petty compulsions incurable,

but my love for her

so much more.

            Kaleidoscope flaming,

her eleven colours remaining

mixed and pure and still swirling,

undimmed

by suffering’s panicked toll

Too much dust and debris

filling the vents, my lungs.

Twisted plots of imagined problems

flung across the river without

factual explanation.

So I endure and I count my numbers

to hold in my anger, hold back my tears

and keep doing the soft servitude and

diligent care I am accustomed to,

instead of doing what I want to do –

withdraw, fold up and out

for at least a good week.

Too much drug-induced insanity whispers,

whispering accusations that hold no water,

but cut and kill just the same

all my good will, my enduring effort

and my exhausted heart that believed at least

it has kept itself true.

The crow almost hits the moving car,

almost goes under the wheel. Instead

it somersaults and avoids being clipped

by inches, flying in front of the car window,

raised away by maneuvering a mounting wind.

Too much blood without redemption.

Too much condemnation for a false claim,

a winter blank and brutal,

not of my own making.

Remember, remember –

the crow caws and reverberates

into the white cells, red cells

or your bloodstream –

Remember

God gives nothing easy,

nothing worthy of keeping

that doesn’t first eviscerate

before reseeding

your radiant core.

How can I rock

between the eaten bread

and the rotten leftovers,

filling plates with putrid smells

and locked-in rage that rages in

an insomniac relentless punch

and tilt – twisting the bowels,

concerned only with petty victories?

How can I keep my self open

while needing full-on protection

from her drug-induced distancing eyes?

How can I live through another day

of exhausting intensity, with unveiled

shameless fears filling space and

the brutal-swerve

of a lingering inevitable?

How can I hold on until the end

hold out until permission is granted

to at last collapse flat out,

unfold, fold?

Last days, these days

roll like a slow-moving stone

across a stony terrain –

many bumps, inclines, declines

and turns.

Last days, restless then at peace

then restless again

as limitations close in so only

the essentials remain.

Last days are these days

soaked with this blazing wound, continuing.

These days there are no more plans

but to live through the days letting in

the undefiled grace that rises like vapour at dusk

through the balcony-door crack,

through her smile which she still manages occasionally,

keeping pace with the clawing hunger for relief

and the undercurrent smells of sickness.

These days are the last days

I can love you,

and how I love you, my mother –

your bright sailboat stalled

in the maw of this menacing wave

surging.

It is clear

that finally we are

adopted into the universe’s time frame,

that time is not counted by cards

or the constellations.

Clear that light is not light-weight

but heavy

when it transforms.

Cracked leather belts tighten like nooses,

dreams crack then shatter and scatter

their fragments down the drain.

God is in the laundry room.

God is in her laboured respiration

and in her smile she now only shows

to strangers.

It is clear dying is not death.

It is its own journey –

a body breaking, a soul struggling

and losing

no matter the effort

to keep itself here, whole.

I wish I was a snail

robbed of its shell, squished

underfoot, drying up in the

sun

so all that was left

of me was a thin crust of skin

that found its way into pavement pores,

and I could be disintegrated, be no more.

I wish I had no responsibilities

but to my solitude, my own thoughts

waking and sleeping.

I wish I never tried to love

because now I know

I have failed at love, to love,

to be strong when open, protecting

not only from the outside but inside too,

taking on others’ spiritual burdens,

not out of kindness

but out of cowardice and the delusion

that the world is anything but

a lulling zone of harsh beggary

and bully imagination.

I am a broken toy kicked to curb.

I am nothing. I have nothing and

I wish I was a snail, dried up,

sensory-dead, flat

and inconsequential.

I don’t know how to sing.

My legs have become old

and there are no more believers

around me.

Clasped in a never-opening lair

with active lava and no windows,

I cannot find the cave through the narrow incline,

trapped, submerged.

I cannot sing or breathe or be here

as I am broken down

bloodied and maimed.

I cannot continue to move,

pretend the feeling light is inside me

when it isn’t, when most days

I wish it was over and the throne of my failure

would burn with myself along with it.

Chaos, eroding sickness,

and the brutal cold reign supreme

Everything I have done

is shattered in a pit

with no way to reassemble or resume.

I don’t want to be here

I don’t want the natural law

but only God’s mercy.

I cannot sing.

My memories are false, used-up

and dissipating.

Exhausted like a willow tree

is exhausted after a storm

but the storm keeps thrashing

and scooping all strong things once rooted

to the ground, releasing them across

the lawn like a brick thrown to the head,

like a dream inhabited in its ghoulish

madness, running but getting nowhere.

The suffering, the need

and the love that keeps

it together but not always.

Nerves dosed in gasoline –

fire just feet away but still at bay.

Breathing for one day, taking no messages, hearing

no extreme complaints. The doors are closed.

The balcony window is open. I step out,

there is a sky and a hawk merging with the clouds.

How much more can I hold?

And then it will be over, and I will hold no more,

not her frail hand, not her scent, not her eyes

with my eyes in deep and struggling prayer,

not her body leaning into my arms,

her full weight surrendered.

A day of reprieve,

wearing a costume and getting

in a car.

A day when the light

is unhooked from its source

and no one will say why

We will just carry on as through

this distress is natural

as though it is a wave to endure

instead of a captive fall.

A day of reverie,

the last time of gathering

and playing the role

The first Christmas at her home

The first time she will sleep through

most of it.

A day that we thought would not come

with her still with us.

So we are grateful

and we take this day

putting our mourning aside

this day – a winter-solstice flower

bearing its last bloom

before the advancing frost.

After the end,

when the end comes

and speaking is useless,

her home will be a torch

blown out – her turquoise eyes,

curtained. Sorrow will open

like a jar of dragonflies, fireflies

released as one.

And even then, when resigned

to the careful truth, the separation

will ache like a phantom limb,

like a stillborn child held, kissed,

never receiving.

As the end approaches,

I will have to force the basics

of breathe, sleep, eat

for her sake and those around me

who love her equally as I do.

I will forget about hope

and then later I will remember

her eyes, alit with playful joy,

her summers spent on proud

adventures and the way she loved me,

never giving up, generous

as an empathetic and beautiful queen,

loving me

without understanding me

but trusting me

all the same.

Repeating, the days

knowing a different day will only be worse,

veiling the eyelids, opening an emptiness

that will never be eased.

Repeating but nor forever, but

longer than anticipated. In spite

of the great love you feel, you feel

used-up, under appreciated.

But this is her now, diseased and drugged,

does not diminish her glowing

life-long compassion, her extravagant tolerance

and kindness, connection to everyone, her softness

that still peels away the crust in an instant

when her heart is touched, when faith

is required.

Duty has made work in the garden

impossible, waking up,

a barren chore.

The mountains have dropped,

flattened out into a steady plane.

Energy I gave up as mine, came back,

surprising me with my own resilience,

stamina to hold the days together one after another

until they became months, a way of life and service.

This gift like a curse like a gift

necessary to pluck

my soul from a rut it had no awareness it was even in

until out, until forced to hold a different tune

and play it until it becomes naturally possible,

a place of unbelievable challenge met,

a place to live without

decisions, conclusions,

live as an open-end-nerve swimming

stroke by stroke upstream –

most times lit on fire,

a few times resting on the bank,

looking around

tamed, soothed.

I cry out throughout the night.

I cry for the thousands due to die

who still remain unclaimed.

A slow step through misery, with moments

intermittent of a pure turquoise glow.

A gradual waking into loss and the definite

abyss of absolute letting-go.

Mid-sleep panic that wakes

me with its red tentacle squeeze

crushing my mind,

and the steady breath I need to endure

another tomorrow.

I cry out but I keep it contained –

my flesh without hope

my spirit committed to this sacred duty

as the rest of me is battered, broken-branched

bearing, feebly carrying

one collapsed body, now another.

A kiss

A curl

a look out

a look beyond

a rosy anticipation.

All things compare to each other

in the dark gloom of dissatisfaction,

meaningless activity

reaching its zenith then back to the nadir and

spinning again.

Painting helps and even singing a familiar song

but these things do not break the loop

or contain more than a flawed and temporary ease.

Hands down, Hands open and the mind saying

now- be brave!

Love is deeper than darkness

more unexpected and varied than the checkpoints

of delusion, chaos and dementia.

Love then, widespread.

Take on that love

and place what weighs you down

into the wet cement blocks

of this unhappy nightmarish decline.

Do this and inherit

the dreamy peace

and its mortal claim.

Do this and be devoted

to good service, knowing

all else is bloodshed,

must be shed to earn your keep

and beeline your way to

a maturing discipline,

an invincible pronouncement –

angelic terror

where only

this slender slice of light exits

to squish through,

beckoning, supreme.

I do not know

the treatment

the reasons

for such a grand tribulation

I have only achieved this interval

of a tiny budding joy,

a respite from the imploding friction.

I do not know if it is more than

a respite, if it is a crossing over,

a victory over infection and chronic chaotic influences

but today she walks a little stronger, limping still

but improving her gait.

Today the Earth is this simple location,

open to the angels and to recovery.

I did not expect this calamity, collapse of

every dream, but my eyes are lifting.

I don’t need a massive harvest, just food

enough to sustain and faith enough

for a mild liberation.

Melody screeched to a halt,

bubble big, too big, extinguished.

I relinquished my faith for answers.

Gruesomely unattractive

in full sight

in sharp black and white

immutable, I wanted

control like some want pleasure,

like one without restrictions

or moral aptitude.

Demons aggressively demanded my trust

underserved, making up stories

to turn failures into victories.

Hell is the steel-illusion-force of truth inverted

where there is no bowing down to the greater

authority, who is God, in charge,

unpredictable, not a pawn to use to

increase power, not a valium pill

to ease my anxiety while

traversing the treacherous unknown.

In that journey there is only one activity,

only faith resuscitating,

the outcome irrelevant –

a blue streak across a grey sky,

feasting on surrender.

Sandbox throughout the vastness

take away the end of time

and I will slide like a globe,

like a planet, bursting stars

as I go, grounding suns and

drowning blackholes in my wake.

I will peel back tomorrow,

compost it into a Sunday secret

gasping for a solitude it will never find

or play-in again.

Take the hunger from Infinity and

I will be open as an abyss, spending money

like everyday is my birthday, my death day.

I will give birth away from

the tempting waters of deception

that conceal choice in hesitation

that drive the mystic to forsaken symbolism,

that pull the spine from its vertebrae, rotating

in one split-second choice,

while looking at it, desiring it, looking like

something worth the price of a soul.

Boredom demands at least a breeze,

at least a far-off flutter to speak the hope

that angels are real.

Take us out of this passageway,

underground mazes, mole homes

that imply safety. The sun is a sea lion.

We will ride beside him and he will coach

us to swerve and flip,

avoid the jellyfish and the stingray.

Meaning will pour like rain on the top

of our surfaced heads –

a storm, this sickness, just another high wave,

just another necessity to dive deeper,

lungs and cells heavy, heavier

to avoid the overhead storm.

Inside, full of hot nerves

sinking without the sight of tentacles

or a slice of coral

to latch onto.

Your faculties, twisted,

breaking logic into shards.

Freedom came like a larger stone to carry,

duty like a sunburn, burning, causing

the first and second layer of skin to blister.

Useless music passes, cannot be kept

or remembered. The space is traveled

knocking against corners, bruising bones

and the remains of visions.

Stings on the pads of your feet

in the white of your eyes.

Inside, we are a tall-tower rubble,

a stack of concrete broken blocks

and bodies

and grief that last generations.

Inside, there is a ship enticing

we cannot board,

a mutual weariness,

a ghostly outage blackout,

blinding us from seeing

sharp corners, soft cushions,

the way to retrieve

a glass

in the kitchen, on the counter

of already poured, useful water.

Blended

into this scenery, this sick bed

and the watered-downed horizon.

It is weak with over-empathizing

tearing crusts off until all protection

is gone from my soft mushy core.

I cannot acclimatize to this grief,

her life-force-fading drawn into my own

bruised blood of doom, dooming my

own cells and strength into this unfair despair,

unsoothable scorch and decay.

A washing down after every visit, care-day

so I do not mimic the symptoms

of death and dying and the aching

anguish of helplessness.

This path will not lead

to a garden but to a cliff,

a farewell without ever coming back.

Each step toward the edge is torture

when taken, is forced not taken because

there is no standing still against it,

no turning around, the inevitable is absolute.

This path is darkness, and this darkness

is complete love – heavy, high above,

a terrifying incarnation.

Turn to me, I turn

skinned,

striking a blow

to the inner circle.

My soul is a peanut,

two parts, shelled, asymmetrical.

Unity is divine, to kill

is never excusable or brave or

or holy.

The bloodwind is the wind

that turns to defeat every journey

in disaster.

Take a mouthful – swirl the grey slime

of decline and the sharp spikes

of uncertainty, to swallow and know this

is what is meant to be

and what you have is this moment

to love and this moment again

to love

and the rest is not worth one thought,

is too much to take in,

so take in and yield to its power.

Chips of clear and broken glass.

Will I make this destiny-duty

intact or burn out on a hospital bed,

drained to the point of no return?

The stones are joy. I keep my smile

pressed on, my impatience under breath

and my dignity on a wire – pulled and tugged

by her unnecessary necessities.

When I am tired

the guilt pores in like

castor oil, down the wrong pipe

into the windpipe as I struggle

to regain our once synchronized flow,

but it will not return or rewind, as her love

only shows in momentary flickers now

before she dives again into these catacombs

collapsing.

She is owned by the morphine

pumping into her bloodstream

at regular intervals, pumping its purpose

to nullify her pain, while twisting mental foreign

tracks through her brain that torture her

with their relentless sticky grid

and serpents’ faces rising, telling her

she is owned, robbed of her

treasured independence, confined to home,

watching her once happy socializing light darken,

and you love her, you know her. You know

for a while

the monster will chomp at the moon,

will take the glow from her view,

soil every brilliant horizon,

will capture her honoured seat,

even conquer her spiritual home,

for a while

death’s rotting belly

will do what it must do,

bloat and swell

foul, naturally cruel.

Dream-self

destiny-self

never align

As soon as the shackles have cracked,

a new cage has formed,

taking away the morning light,

a chance to see the phenomena

of untainted being.

I have fallen into usefulness

like a bottomless sewer pit, falling, nothing

broke, just the drain of gravity in my bones

as I fall, lacking

the gift of appreciation and the possibility

of a safe landing.

Selling parts secretly owned

but never named. Scraping off

the daily dread to find a hope.

Hoping her suffering soul

will be reconciled in a flash,

unscathed when the new one begins,

budding, blooming into the opening,

the center of the ring,

enveloped in tenderness eternal.

Then the peace she gained by her natural

good heart will expand and blot out her

anxieties, her struggles for control.

She will be unharmed, in a state

where joy overwhelms with a constant

ecstasy sustainable and God is beside her

within her and all around her, swirling, caressing,

like God has always been, only now with a certainty

that even the most faithful servants

(inside time

inside gravity)

have never known.

Purely dying

like the universe

bottoming out,

letting it all go into

a sinkhole oblivion.

Purely fear of losing

the definite, the breathing lungs

in the body on the bed

and the heart-seized and blind from

its atomic power.

Purely God

holding the stick and strings,

concealed and blanketing,

preparing her soul for this

divine beginning.

The hall light is dim.

The curtains rustle forward.

Her eyes, once wet with anxiety’s tears,

now see the angels surround, the truth

of boundless love, for her, for all.

Last days

Dark days

dangerous death

at my doorstep,

swinging its hips to-and-fro.

Burning body, cracked, gnawed

away by insect bites, rodent bites

and the big blackhole open-mouth, forsaken.

Take what you must, but take it now,

swiftly, cover the core and the extremities

with your weight and then lift that weight

into the light of the sun, glorious

as a sparkle-water-wave-ripple

and a solitary hawk merging with the horizon.

Let her go like that hawk, pure in spirit

as she is, kind and soft as a child as she is.

Let her go into a dream that turns from

a dream into heaven’s threshold,

where she crosses over filled with your glory,

and my father looking on

with steady, welcoming eyes.

Outer nerves,

the madness of rise and decline,

undulating like an erratic wave,

the body joined to the illusion,

to past conclusions

and repetitive patterns remolded but unchanged.

Anxiety and intuition smudged

into one dim light.

I bow to the blowing wind, to the ignorance of now.

I hold her hand more now than I did as a child.

Tears rest for a while but lack any regulation.

Slow as a sloth but unpredictable as a storm.

Each day expends

what once was a normal week of energy.

Downward is the secret.

Bend in the direction of whatever gives.

The night is full of apocalyptic dreams,

solar flares and precautions, preparations

to minimize the coming death-blast charring burn.

The night season comes

and Earth is mine to hold,

witness its mark

and its gathering decay

while you sleep in an unconscious

darkening – skin around your mouth

turning blue, and inside that open circle,

inner lips peeling rice-paper fine

and your tongue like a dried log, that I keep sponging,

trying to saturate and regain its malleable form.

Your eyebrows twitch in what the nurses

promise me is not pain, promised me

you are comfortable

even though

for three days and three nights you

have lingered in a grizzly dehydrated shadow-stasis.

These days are like years, ripping away my trust,

my faith, my understanding of mercy,

solidifying the power

of bone-chiselling dread.

I love you, more in your helplessness,

in your patience for the final command, lingering,

red sores forming under your eyes,

fingers cold, purple pale and never grasping.

I stay with you in that place, even when

I sleep, I never sleep without you with me.

I love you and I hurt for you

and I want your release from this

brutal collapse of your form.

Why or even how you are lingering so long,

even the doctor can’t say.

I think you are buffering us from the pain of your loss

I think sometimes maybe mercy burns

hotter than punishment.

And these times

life surpasses understanding,

when the bottom current over quicksand thins,

breaking the chrysalis, clearing the way

for an unwanted redemption.

I am lifted

Blood on a field   Blood in a cloud

and then so many

streams flowing, unassuming.

I take your hand, lean

over you and kiss your forehead,

weeping, praying, saying

again and again I love you, thank you.

Your breaths are short, coming from below

not from your chest, but from your deepest gut,

stillness, ease, a letting go.

I drop like a bird on your shoulder.

I know you are leaving. You know

it is a beautiful alchemy, accumulation

of a life so gloriously lived. I tell you

to take Jesus’ hand and he will take you

to the golden tender light of eternal heaven.

You take his hand, and God

has become the atmosphere,

encapsulating, removing time.

Your last breath is more

a soft sigh than a breath,

not a cross-wind of struggle,

not a brush-stroke of “But wait..”

You are gone.

Seagulls fill the view from the window,

circling, joyful in their angelic form.

You are free.

My heart has merged with yours,

forest blue, deep and rich and forever.

My mother, my powerful ally,

friend for all ages – goodbye,

the six-month journey to this point

was treacherous, the last weeks, tortuous,

but these final moments were divine,

was God’s grace in full view, mercy

that healed all pain gone before,

resurrection visible like spread-out water lilies

or Elysian Fields, sublime.

            My mother, the sky is again yours,

embracing the seen and unseen spectrums.

Your sky is prophecy, feeding

the bedrock and the water’s reflection,

all parts proved sacred, identical

to the immutable moving whole.

Allison Grayhurst has been nominated for “Best of the Net” five times. She has over 1,400 poems published in over 530 international journals, including translations of her work. She has 25 published books of poetry and six chapbooks. She is an ethical vegan and lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay.

Near Where Reeds Sometimes Sway in the Wild Wind, (and of fields barns summer’s scenes, the mise-en-scene of pastoral worlds northern) (for Raquel)

there was a winding way, and it was beyond the towns where fields and farms lived and had lived for decades, for seemingly forever. I asked a soul why some of the horses had little or hardly any places to wait in the rain (though they had some), and others at different places had large and many shelters. she said that not all ranches, just because they are ranches, have the same amount of money. and it was a sunny and summer and calm day,- and the horses there, one brown and one white and one black, would pause so briefly and look at me as I passed by. that was another world, and I wondered what it would be like being borne into such a lifestyle. 

I glanced back leaving, and saw there as I did elsewhere the tall barns on concrete forms with old but curt and organized windows small and sometimes even large. sometimes the structures were faded and needed painting and even the forms, the concrete foundations,- spoke somehow of their age. if there were reeds or some kind of wild growths on the edges of such places I liked them very much. and if the wind announced itself suddenly and then even frequently and brought such reeds over or over and back and forth in the world, like they were all dancing or talking, well I liked that even more since the world was alive then. it was an okay day. they were okay days. there wasn’t a lot to complain about.

WE ARE, ONCE 

A woman's body is silent sheltered by hope... 
We don't know if we are, 
there is a place, where They lost their words. 
And you, dear breath, sound behind 
of the light that barely shines... 
We are, once And voices pass weaving tears in the eyes
We see the downpour arriving 
that dissolves yesterday 
like an invented custom
Me, here looking at the sequences of time, 
while the dialogue dies every day, 
deciphering codes of memory and absence 
Lover of blue, you are a murmur of letters 
when you walk away dying. 
After the departure of we are once. 
The outburst will come, dubious rarity
What will transform here we are... we were once.

GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina. Based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters, author of seven books. Poetry genre. Awarded several times worldwide. She works as she, World Manager of Educational and Social Projects, of the Hispanic World Union of Writers. UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. Commissioner of honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.

SPEECH SOUNDS IN GERMAN LANGUAGE

X.U.Urokov1 1Samarkand state institute of foreign languages department of Uzbek language and literature trainee teacher Sharipov Ubaydullo2

2Samarkand state institute of foreign languages faculty of Foreign language and literature 2nd year student https://doi.org/10.5281/zenodo.7509763

Annotation The article introduces the study of speech sounds, different kind of divisions and changes, features of vowels and consonants, Law of Grimm and Verner and important information related to speech sounds.

Keywords: phonetics , articulation , vowels , consonants , Proto-Germanic , Proto-Indo-European , monophthong , phoneme.

Children communicate with sounds from birth. Their “speech” begins with early, involuntary sounds, and develops into sophisticated sequences of movements – using the lips, tongue, and producing all of the sounds in words and sentences. Speech sounds is a powerful tool for communication. The use of speech sounds is important for early word learning and successful nonverbal and verbal communication with people all over the world.

The study of speech sounds (or spoken language) is the branch of linguistics known as phonetics. So, phonetics is the study of the way humans make, transmit, and receive speech sounds. The speech sounds are phonetic variants of the phonemes. For example, the German phoneme [K] occurs in its positionally conditioned variants in the following words: klein, Sack, Kunde, Ecke, Musik, Kiefer. As unit of phonetics , speech sounds have four aspects: articulatory, acoustic, auditory, and functional (social).

According to V.A. Vassilyev, these four aspects cannot be separated from one another in the actual process of communication, but each of these four aspects can be singled out for purposes of linguistic analysis and thus becomes a separate object of investigation, which necessitates the division of phonetics as a science into several branches. Each of these branches of phonetics has its own methods of investigation and its own terminology. Phoneticians (linguists who study the articulatory and/or acoustic properties of speech sounds) have grouped the speech sounds into several categories. There are vowels and consonants, of course, but there are also lots of smaller distinctions within those categories.

ACADEMIC RESEARCH IN MODERN SCIENCE

International scientific-online conference 43 When it comes to vowels, vowels don’t involve stopping the stream of air as it travels up from the lungs, but they do involve changing the shape and size of the space through which the air passes. The vocal cords must also be vibrating in order for a vowel sound to be produced. The German alphabet has five main vowels: a, e, i, o, u. In addition, there are so called “umlaute”: ä, ö, and ü.

Also, these vowels can be paired to form different sounds—just like in English: “boat” makes a different sound than “boot.” German vowels are classified according to the following six characteristics: according to articulation stability, duration, quality, lip position, tongue position (in the horizontal direction) and degree of elevation of the tongue (in the vertical direction).

1) Stability of articulation specifies the actual position of the articulating organ in the process of the articulation of a vowel. So according to this principle the English vowels are subdivided into: monophthongs and diphthongs. Monophthongs are vowels with stable articulation. The diphthongs are vowels with sliding articulation. there are 15 monophthongs in German: [aː], [a], [ɔ], [oː], [uː], [ʊ], [i:], [ɪ], [y:], [y], [e:], [ɛː], [ɛ], [øː], [œ] and 3 diphthongs :[aɛ], [ao] and [ɔø].

2) The German monophthongs are traditionally divided into two varieties according to their length. Monophtongs break down into 8 long vowels and 7 short ones. Long vowels: a/ä, e, o/ö and u/ü are pronounced as long vowels if they are followed by h or ß, or a single b, k, d, f, n, m, p, s, t or z. We pronounce i as a long vowel if it is followed by e. beten – to pray Sahne – cream Söhne – sons Fuß – foot Miete – rent Short vowels: a/ä, e, i, o/ö and u/ü are pronounced as short vowels if they are followed by ck, ch, tz or a double consonant. Rock – skirt Lachen – to laugh Mütze – cap ACADEMIC RESEARCH IN MODERN SCIENCE International scientific-online conference 44 Männer – men Mitte – middle

3) In German, quantity is associated with quality. Long vowels are closed and short ones are open. Two vowels [ a: ] and [ ɛ: ] are long and open.

4) According to the position of the lips , vowels are rounded and unrounded. Rounded vowels are those in the production of which the lips are more or less rounded and protruded. Unrounded vowels are those in the production of which the lips are spread and neutral. Rounded vowels are: [ o: ], [ɔ ] , [ u: ], [ ʊ ], [ y: ], [ y ], [ øː ], [ œ ]. Unrounded vowels are: [ a: ], [ a ], [ i: ], [ ɪ ], [ e: ], [ ɛː ], [ ɛ ].

5) According to the position of the tongue, German vowels are classified into front row vowels : [ i: ], [ ɪ ], [ y ], [ e: ], [ y ], [ e: ],[ ɛː ], [ ɛ ], [ øː ], [œ ], [ a ] ,which are pronounced with the tongue pushed forward and back row vowels : [ u: ], [ ʊ ], [ o: ], [ ɔ ], [ a: ], which are pronounced with the back tongue pushed backwards.

6) Depending on the degree of tongue elevation, a distinction is made between low [ a; ], [ a ], medium [ e: ], [ɛː ], [ ɛ ], [ øː ], [ œ ], [ o: ], [ ɔ ] and high tongue elevation vowels [ i: ], [ ɪ ], [ y:], [ y ], [ u: ] , [ ʊ ]. The vowel system of the ancient Germanic languages consisted of short and long vowels.

Differentiation of short and long vowels is one of the important features of the German language group. Short and long vowels changed differently, long vowels became closer to diphthongs, while short vowels changed to open vowels. A diphthong is a combination of two adjacent vowel sounds within the same syllable. Additionally, Ancient Indo-European [o ] sound Front Central Back Unrounded rounded short long short long short long short long Close iː yː uː Closemid ɪ eː ʏ øː (ə) ʊ oː Openmid ɛ (ɛː) Œ (ɐ) ɔ Open A aː

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International scientific-online conference 45 changed to open [a] in Germanic languages, long vowel [a:] changed to [o:] in Ancient Indo-European languages. The vowel system in ancient Germanic languages is composed of short and long vowel sounds. The distinction between short and long vowels is one of the important characteristics of the Germanic group of languages. short and vowels vowels changed differently, while long vowels approached diphthongs, while short vowels switched to open vowels.

The sound of ancient Indian-European [o] changed to open [a] in Germanic languages, and the long vowel [A:] in ancient Indo-European languages changed to [o:]. Independent vowel changes

Change s Illustra ted Examples PI E P G Non-germanic Germanic Old Modern o a : A o: L noch , Ir nochd , R ночь Gt nahts , O Icel natt, OHG naht Sw natt , G Nacht R могу ; мочь Gt magan, OE maßan, mæß Sw mä , NE may L mater , R мать Icel moðir , OE mödor Sw moder , NE mother O Ind bhrata , L frater , R брат Gt brop̈ar, O Icel Broðir, OE broðor Sw broder , NE brother Mutation of vowels Change Illustrated Examples NonGermanic Germanic Old Modern

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International scientific-online conference 46 PIE – Proto-Indo-European O Icel – Old Icelandic PG – Proto-Germanic Sw – Swedish L – Latin R – Russian Gt – Gothic OE – Old English O – object NE – New English OHG – Old high german After these changes , the vowel system contained the following sounds: It is believed that in addition to these monophongs Proto Germanic had a set of dipthongs made up of more open nuclei and closer glides : [ ei ] , [ ai ] , [ eu ] , [ au ] and also [ iu ] ; nowadays , however, many scholars interpret them as sequences of two independent monopthongs .

A monophthong is a pure vowel sound, one whose articulation at both beginning and end is relatively fixed, and which does not glide up or down towards a new position of articulation. The history of the Germanic group begins with the appearance of what is known as the Proto-Germanic (PG) language. Proto-Germanic is the reconstructed proto-language of the Germanic branch of the Indo-European PIE G i e e u u o L ventus , R ветер Gt winds , O Icel , Vindr , OE wind Sw wind , NE wind L edit , R есть L edere , L есть OHG iz̪it , OE itep , O Icel eta , OE etan G ißt , NE eats , G essen NE eat Lith sunus , R сын Icel sunr , OE sunu Sw son, NE son Celt hurnan O Icel , OE horn NE horn , Sw horn Short vowels I E A O u Long vowels i: e: a: o: u:

ACADEMIC RESEARCH IN MODERN SCIENCE

International scientific-online conference 47 languages. It is supposed to have split from related Indo-European tongues sometime between the 15th and 10th с B.C. The would-be Germanic tribes belonged to the western division of the Indo-European speech community. Proto-Germanic eventually developed from pre-Proto-Germanic into three Germanic branches during the fifth century BC to fifth century AD: West Germanic, East Germanic and North Germanic, which however remained in contact over a considerable time, especially the Ingvaeonic languages (including English), which arose from West Germanic dialects and remained in continued contact with North Germanic.

The end of the Common Germanic period is reached with the beginning of the Migration Period in the fourth century. Vowels underwent different kind of alternations: qualitative and quantitative , dependent and independent. Qualitative changes affect the quality of the sound , e.g.: [ o >a ] or [ p > f ]; quantitative changes make long sounds short or short sounds long , e.g. : [ i > i: ] , [ ll > l ] ; dependent changes ( also positional or combinative ) are restricted to certain positions or phonetic conditions , for instance, a sound or in a certain type of a syllable; independent changes – also spontaneous or regular – take place irrespective of phonetic conditions , i.e. they affect a certain sound in all positions.

In the later Proto Germanic and in separate Germanic languages the vowels displayed a tendency to positional assimilative changes: the pronunciation of a vowel was modified under the influence of the following or preceding consonant; sometimes a vowel was approximated more closely to the following vowel. The resulting sounds were phonetically conditioned allophones which could eventually coincide with another phoneme or develop into a new phoneme. Moreover, a phoneme is a unit of sound that can distinguish one word from another in a particular language.

The earliest instances of progressive assimilation were common Germanic mutations; they occurred in Late Proto Germanic before its disintegration or a short time after. In certain phonetic conditions, namely before the nasal [n] and before [i] or [j] in the next syllable the short [e] , [i] and [u] remained or became close ( i.e . appeared as [i] and [u] ) , whil in the absence of these conditions the more open allophones were used: [e] and [o] , respectively .

Lately , these phonetic conditions became irrelevant and allophones were phonologized. In contrast, a consonant is basically any sound that isn’t a vowel. This is a speech sound that is articulated with complete or partial closure of the vocal tract. The German consonants can be classified according to the following four

ACADEMIC RESEARCH IN MODERN SCIENCE

International scientific-online conference 48 characteristics: 1) according to the involvement of the vocal cords; 2) according to the type of articulation; 3) according to the place of articulation and 4) according to the involvement of the nasal cavity. 1) According to the work of the vocal cords and the force of exhalation consonants are subdivided into voiced and voiceless. Voiced consonants arise when the vocal cords produce a voice tone that combines with a noise.

Voiced consonants are [b], [d], [g], [v], [z], [ʒ], [j], [m], [n], [I], [r], [R] , [ŋ]. Among them, other consonants (sonants) are to be distinguished. With the sonorant [m], [n], [ŋ], [I], [r], [R], the voice tone dominates over the noise. Voiceless noise sounds are [p], [t], [k], [f], [s], [ ʃ ], [x], [ꞔ ], [h], [pf ], [ts], [tʃ]. These are pure noises. 2) According to the manner of articulation, the consonants are divided into six groups; a) Explosive sounds: [p], [t], [ k], [b], [d], [g]. Between the articulating organ and the place of articulation a seal is formed which is blown open by the air flow. b)Engeries (fricatives): [f], [s], [x], [ʃ], [ꞔ ], [h], [v], [z], [ʒ],[j]. A narrowness between the articulating organ and the point of articulation opposes the air flow as an obstacle. c) Clasped (affricates): [pf], [ts], [tʃ].

Occlusive-constrictive consonants or affricates are noise consonant sounds produced with a complete obstruction which is slowly released and the air escapes from the mouth with some friction. d) Shutter opening sounds (nasals): [m], [n], [ŋ]. At one point in the speech apparatus a blockage is created, but at another point an opening through which the air escapes. e) Laterals: [I]. A lateral is a consonant in which the airstream proceeds along one or both of the sides of the tongue, but it is blocked by the tongue from going through the middle of the mouth. f) Trembling sounds (vibrants) : [ r ], [R]. An articulating organ approaches the point of articulation and is set vibrating.

3) According to the place of articulation, the German consonants are classified into: 1. Lip sounds (labials): [p], [b], [m], [f], [v], [pf]. The lip sounds break down into: ACADEMIC RESEARCH IN MODERN SCIENCE International scientific-online conference 49 a) two lip sounds (bilabials): [p], [b], [m] b) tooth lip sound (dentilabial): [f], [v], [pf]. 2. Tongue sounds (lingual): [t], [d], [n], [I], [r], [s], [ʃ], [ʒ], [ts], [tʃ],[ꞔ ], [j], [k], [g], [ŋ]; where the following subgroups are to be distinguished: a) Front tongue sounds (Linguodentale): [s], [z], [ts]; linguoalveolar: [t], [d], [n], [I], [r]; postalveolar: [ ŋ], [ ʒ], [ tʃ ] b) middle tongue sounds (linguopalatale): [ꞔ ], [j]; c) back tongue sounds (linguovelare): [k], [g], [ŋ]; 3. Back palatine sounds (uvulars): [x], [R];

4. Throat sound (laryngeal consonant): [h]. Place of articulation Force of Articulation forelingual labio- glottal dental interdental alveolar palatoalveolar Strong (fortis) voiceless f θ s ʃ h Weak (lenis) sometimes voiced V ð z ʒ – 4) According to the involvement of the nasal cavity, the consonants are divided into pure and nasal. Pure consonants arise when the soft palate is raised and closes off the nasal cavity from the oral cavity. The airflow can only escape through the oral cavity. The soft palate is lowered when the nasal sounds are articulated. The airflow passes through the nasal cavity. In German there are three nasal consonants [m], [n] and [ŋ].

All other consonants are pure (oral). German consonants can be represented in the following tables:

ACADEMIC RESEARCH IN MODERN SCIENCE

International scientific-online conference 50 Place of articulatio n Type of articulation Lip sounds Tongue sounds Back palatin e sounds Throa t sound Two lip sound s tooth lip soun d Front tongue sound s middle tongue sound s back tongue sound s explosive sounds P b t d t d k g Engeries F v s z ʃ ʒ ꞔ x R h clasped (affricates) Pf ts tʃ shutter opening sounds Nasals M n ŋ Laterals l trembling sounds (vibrants) r R The first fundamental change in the consonant system of Germanic languages dates back to times far removed from today.

Jakob Ludwig Grimm (1785-1863), a German philologist and a folklorist (generally known together with his brother Wilhelm for their Grimm’s Fairy Tales (1812-22) studied and systematized these correlations in his Deutsche Grammatik (1819-37). His conclusions are formulated Grimm’s law (the First Consonant shift). The essence of Grimm’s law is that the quality of some sounds (namely plosives) changed in all Germanic languages while the place of their formation remained unchanged. Thus, voiced aspirated plosives (stops) lost their aspiration and changed into pure voiced plosives, voiced plosives became voiceless plosives and voiceless plosives turned into voiceless fricatives.

ACADEMIC RESEARCH IN MODERN SCIENCE

International scientific-online conference 51 The first law of displacement of consonants, which was called “Act” by Grimm, consisted of three stages. 1. The resonant explosive in Indo-European languages (b, d, g) corresponded to the non-resonant explosive (p, t, k) in Germanic languages. 2. The non-resonant explosive (p, t, k) in Indo-European languages was suitable for the non-resonant sliding (f , th, h) in Germanic languages. 3. The resonant explosive sound of breath (bh, dh, gh) in Indo-European languages was consistent with the resonant explosive (b, d, g) in Germanic languages.

Examples of consonant shifts Shift in Germanic Sanskrit Greek Latin English PIE PG P > f t > θ k > x päd tanu ꞔ atam pod tanaos hekaton ped tenius centum foot thin hundred b > p d > t g > k – daꞔ a ajras – deka agros lübricus decem ager slippery ten acre bh > b dh > d gh > g bhrätä vidhavä hansas Phrätёr ёitheos khёn fräter vidua (h)änser brother widow goose Another important series of consonant changes in Proto Germanic was discovered in the late 19 th century by a Danish scholar, Carl Verner. They are known as Verner’s Law (Second Germanic consonant shift).

Verner’s Law explains some correspondences of consonants which seemed to contradict Grimm’s Law and were for a long time regarded as exceptions. Verner’s law describes a historical sound change in the Proto-Germanic language whereby consonants that would usually have been the voiceless fricatives[ f], [þ], [s], [h], [hʷ], following an unstressed syllable, became the voiced fricatives [β],[ ð],[ z],[ ɣ],[ ɣʷ]. The law was formulated by Karl Verner, and first published in 1877.

Verner’s law explains why some verbs in Old English changed their root consonant in the past tense and in the Participle II – originally, these grammatical forms had the stress on the second syllable. Hence the basic forms of such verbs as snidan (cut) and weordan ( become) were sni dan — sndd – snidon – sniden; weordan – weard – wurdon – worden. According to Verner’s

ACADEMIC RESEARCH IN MODERN SCIENCE

International scientific-online conference 52 Law, all the early Proto Germanic voiceless fricatives [ f, θ, x] which arose under Grimm’s Law and also [s] inherited from Proto-Indian-European, became voiced between vowel if the preceding vowel was unstressed; in the absence of these conditions they remained voiceless. The voicing occurred in early Proto Germanic at the time when the stress was not yet fixed on the root-morpheme.

The process of voicing can be shown as a step in a succession of consonant changes in prehistorical reconstructed forms ; consider , e.g. the changes of the second consonant in the word “father” Proto-IndianEuropean Early Proto-Germanic Late ProtoGermanic Pa’ter > fa’ θar > fa’ ðar > >‘faðar Carl Verner made the following additions to the first law of consonant shift: transition of t to < [th], it also transitioned to [t] in Old English. Latin Old English Frater Brothor Mater Mothor Verner clarified that if the vowel in the syllable is stressed, the voiceless sliding [f], [θ], [x], [s] changed to > [v], [θ], [u], [z] based on the law of consonant shift in the first act.

Finally, speech sounds are a language universal that plays a huge role in communication. It is characterized by different parameters and has a number of functions. One of the many features of speech sounds are highlighted is that it helps individuals learn. Other than that, individuals who learn in their native language learn better because of the ease of understanding and less language barrier. Therefore, the importance of sound of speech is undeniable.

List of used literatures: 1. Теоретическая фонетика английского языка, учебно-практическое пособие, Челябинск, 2016. 2. Z.B.Toshev. Nemis tili fonetikasi. Toshkent, “Fan”, 2009. 3. К.Н.Намозов, Н.Г.Содиқова. Немис тили амалий фонетикаси, Самарқанд, 2009. 4. Z. X. Masodiqova, Sh. S. Hatamqulova. Nemis va o‘zbek tillarida unli va ayrim undosh tovush haqida. Молодой ученый. 2017.

MEMORIES OF YOUR TORMENT!

After crossing the road of our love
We met leaving far behind everything
How about walking to the no man's land
Hardly do we know each other though
I feel as if I've got my soulmate in you
Days go by; nights don't seem to glide
Memories of yours do torment me a lot
The world has reduced me to this state 
Sitting and clutching my wounded past
Cause you're so close to me, you know
But I think you're out of my reach now.


 NOTHING IN MY HAND!

I wish your presence when I am awake
Always in my dreams if I shut my eyes
I've recorded my world in your name
For the first time in my life you came
My eyes were wet while laughing
Nothing in my hand; me empty &  lonely
Your entity you know essential to me
My palm lines aren't perfect though
It is clear you've accepted me as I am 
There was loneliness in my heart and
In your presence I feel heavenly bliss.


THE DUST OF GRIEF!

At times I think of my uneventful life
Just a garland of thorns sans peace 
What I have found is the dust of grief 
When I did desire for the cold touch
Out of nothing only cold sigh in my lot 
Sorrows made my heart more sombre 
You left leaving a couple of moments 
None has time to hold my numb hands
Even my shadow is very often apathetic 
This is my life and why should I be afraid 
Of sorrow for it's mine, my companion.



YOU BECAME MY PRAYER!

I'll give away my life, even lose all my wins 
Whatever be the cost, you're my everything
Beyond all my limits and boundaries 
Now I'm broken after giving everything 
I'm no one; you've become my destination 
Great things God has given without asking 
Otherwise atheists like me won't get God
My desires 've met you as you became my prayer.


Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai (DOB 07/06/1973) is a passionate Indian Author-cum- bilingual poet while a tremendous lecturer of English by profession in the Ganjam district of Odisha. He is an accomplished source of inspiration for young generation of India. His free verse on Romantic and melancholic  poems appreciated by everyone. He belongs to a small typical village Nandiagada of Ganjam District, the state of Odisha. After schooling he studied intermediate and Graduated In Kabisurjya Baladev vigyan Mahavidyalaya then M A in English from Berhampur University PhD in language and literature and D.litt from Colombian poetic house from South America. 

He promotes his specific writings around the world literature and trades with multiple stems that are related to current issues based on his observation and experiences that needs urgent attention. He is an award winning writer who has achieved various laurels from the circle of writing worldwide. His free verse poems not only inspires young readers but also the people of his generation. His poetic goal is right now inspiring others, some of which are appreciated by laurels of India and across the world. Many of his poems been translated in different Indian languages and got global appreciation. Lots of well wishes for his upcoming writings and success in future.

He is an award winning poet and author of many best selling books. Recently he was awarded Rabindra nath Tagore and Gujarat Sahitya Academy for the year 2022 from Motivational Strips . A gold medal from world union of poets France & winner Of Rahim Karims world literary prize 2023.The government of Odisha Higher Education Department appointed him as a president to Governing body of Padmashree Dr. Ghanashyam Mishra Sanskrit Degree College, Kabisurjyanagar.

Winner of "HYPERPOEM " GUINNESS WORLD RECORD 2023.Recently he was awarded from SABDA literary Festival at Assam, the highest literary honour from Peru contributing world literature 2024. Completed 200 Epistolary poems with Kristy Raines of the USA.

Books.

1.Psalm of the Soul.
2.Rise of New Dawn.
3.Secret Of Torment.
4.Everything I Never Told You.
5.Vision Of Life National Library Kolkata.
6.100 Shadows of Dream.
7.Timeless Anguish.
8.Voice of Silence.
9.I cross my heart from east to west. (Epistolary poetry with Kristy Raines)

Sculptor Arm

Michelangelo Buonarotti 
	  was the third SCULPTOR
			To tackle 
		the Carrera Marble,
That huge block of Carrera Marble,
	He who saw spirit in stone,
   Who knew that every stone
	  Has a statue inside it,
	And from his pounding,		
	   Chipping, shaping
	Relentlessly gave life to
		      DAVID—
    Six tons, and 17 feet tall
			  DAVID
	  A symbol of strength
			  Poise,
		   Confidence
			  DAVID
	 Facing the challenges
		      Of life.

    The first artists gave up—
	   Too hard, too many 
		  Imperfections-- 
   But Michelangelo Buonorotti,
Only a baby when they abandoned it,
	 Twenty-five Years later
Took up the chisel, took up the task
	With an arm indomitable
   That pounded the stone
	  To completion.
			To perfection—
	    Sculptor Arm!

Random Musings about Submission

By Jacques Fleury

[Originally published in Jacques Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self]

Let’s just begin in
medias res…or in the middle of things…
You see, we had artistic differences,
I was the artist and they were indifferent…
“Thank you for your submission…” but I never 
Submitted!

At least not in the way that they wanted me to;
If I wasn’t fiscally challenged, I would board a jet plane
And head for a luge run at Saint Moritz Switzerland,
A psychotically dangerous sport;
Maybe they’ve driven me to psychosis!

Luge, a sport rooted in Germanic tribal wars against the Romans;
Bored aristocrats on vacation looking for a distraction;
Although I am distracted by my own tribal war here in America,
I am nothing like a bored and puerile aristocrat…
This landed me in a mawkish quagmire of self-pity;
In my mind I absconded into a journey of devilment to topple my torment;

Writing can be an exercise in discernment that you are inevitably
Obliged to submit for judgment; that is if you expect to make
An impact other than justifying your own derangement due to
Maladjustment…
“Your writing is not a good fit for our publication” was the nadir of my existence!!!
What did I write to warrant such specious offerings you may ask?
Well I wrote from the voice of an ignoble omnivorous muskrat
Whose sexual identify is non-binary;

Both a strumpet and a sthumpet!
And as an exponent of socio-political justice wrote hither and thither
An apocalyptic reverie about mutant muskrats;
A germane allegory or political fodder for the purpose of unveiling
pejorative prejudice;
Deciding to introduce a foreign element into an established
Yet insecure environment so to demonstrate the ensuing behavior
Of those who deem themselves superior;
The muskrat representing the only POC or person of color
In an all-white order where WASPS Rule!

WASPS being descendants of
Wealthy Anglo-Saxon Protestant Males
Feeling their long history of imposing their cultural values and
Socio-political power over “the other” that is
women and minorities…
Threatened by a neo-progressive era geared towards changing the status quo;
Clamping down on their suppression in retaliation to the
Nascent and unrelenting movement towards socio-political
And economic progression and equality
In this American Nation!

“Thank you for your submission
But your work is not a good fit for our publication…” 
Really?!
So here I am, randomly musing about not being chosen…
Am I just a titular poet?
A deuteragonist in my own story?
When do I get to be the protagonist hero despite my AFRO?!
When do I get to be the plucky character in epics akin to

19th century iconoclastic South African king Shaka Zulu whose heroic story depicted
How he united tribal factions to create notable states and powerful African identities…or even
Anglo-Saxon and French epics like Beowulf together with Le Chanson De Roland?
Or even the archetypal Mesopotamian great:
The Epic of Gilgamesh;
Regarded as the earliest prototypical literature and the second oldest religious text…

“Your submission is not on par with our vision…”
Really?!
Even in the midst of global
Dissention and division?!
So we had artistic differences…I was the artist and they were indifferent.

But I decided to muse about it to manufacture
My own moment,
Fashion my own non-contentious and all-inclusive literary faction,
Where ALL postulatory voices are worthy of publication;
Because the acrimony of exclusivity is
A damnation!
I will continue to submit but NEVER to their behest for 
Submission!!!