Whether they want to hear or not or whether it makes sense to your mathematician friend or bears no resemblance to anything real or unreal-let your thoughts scurry away under age-old wardrobes from which you saw a mouse run from when you were young and you raised your legs above your head for fear or to prove to your own body that it’s bendable-lock your parts in plastic containers you can buy from the pound shop and heat them up underneath the scrutinizing fake light of your workplace microwave that always smells of dead fish until something surfaces then get that initial thin film of debris off the way your mother’s mother’s mother taught you when she was making soup out of the chickens your father killed in the yard and you and your sister plucked feathers out of-you can still remember that satisfying pull so you should know how it feels when you get it right on paper-ignore death and the futility of everything you make and bury this under the non-guilt you felt when you cradled headless chicken in your hands-your poetry is much like that-with your miniature shovel you try to dig graves for things that do not wish to die and so you bury a version of yourself alive in shame-your shame-his shame-your parents’ shame-your country’s shame-your generation’s shame- you pretend your ragdoll shoulders are large enough to carry weights made out of stone you drag behind surround yourself with and pretend that just because it’s movable it should be carried-you hear yourself distant and young but older than you are right now only in whispers and you reach your hand through the ice wall of time and in the space continuum you find no continuation of yourself just a limit to your left where your right hand can’t reach and therefore it cannot write for let’s be honest with ourselves you write with your hand-if you were to write with your mind what structure would there be in place to stop the tidal wave of idiosyncrasies from tearing down the sensible establishments of obnoxiously ordinary people who have camped themselves at the edges of your amygdala reminding you of all you wish you did not fear-you feel a bones rattling out of their sockets tired-you wish for clearly labelled well defined columns in which you can categorise all your disappointments with yourself-you fear you look too much like what you know you aren’t and fear this ability you have to get them thinking you’re thin enough to be able to get pulled clean through the eye of a pin needle-your head has too much noise like the accumulation of sound from an auditorium filled with 500 women all speaking at the same time wishing their loneliness would transgress itself and become both an unselfish and real lover in which they can hide themselves from the world-which are the rooms you stand tall in-do you find yourself like the bottom half of a mannequin missing its left leg standing on an upside down bathtub at the edge of a row of terraced houses in bleak industrialised mid-Autumn-I have never felt more insufficient then when I’ve tried to write.
Category: Uncategorized
Why Don’t We Talk About Shame?
~a goodbye to shame~
I shamed myself out of all a lot of things and into a lot of them.
I shamed myself into pain and shamed myself that I was feeling it.
I shamed myself for silly things and big things until I lived in the confinement of it.
Perhaps now, when we are truly locked in, I was meant to find my shame was too small a room to be able to breathe in.
You know, I’ve been doing a lot of walking lately. I’ve been walking myself places.
I walked myself out of the dark corridors of shame and stepped into the light and watched what happened to my skin once the sun warmed it.
I walked myself to the end of things and realised mostly everything is limited, it has edges, it ends.
I allowed myself to fall, to run, to slow down, to not move at all.
I realised this world hasn’t given me a whole lot so I better not accept its shame.
And then a man came to me one day and offered to hang my shame on the side of the tree that he was carrying.
I decided that whatever it is to die, I would let it.
And, at the end of shame, I am more myself.
They shall forget their shame…(Ezekiel 39:26)
Why Don’t We Talk About Shame?
…about the shame of women you may know…
Your beauty became his and you will not open your mouth for shame.
You look at his reflection in the joined mirror and see yourself trapped inside the body of a man you should have said no to.
You sign your name along the dotted line of the third form you filled out that month and hope someone will notice your bruise is not from falling.
And when push came to shove, you stayed.
You cover the decade-old bloodstains on the white sheets you’ve gotten used to seeing every month since you were fourteen.
You carry your memory foam pillow across the room to prove to yourself your body can handle the weight of a baby you are scared to want.
You run your tongue over each one of your teeth in part wondering why you always seemed to be too loud.
You measure yourself inside and out and wonder how you can be both too much and not enough.
Our bodies are age-old carriers of shame. The weight is heavy. Our shoulders are weakening. We must admit to ourselves that we’re buckling at the knees.
Your body may struggle under the weight of shame but leaving is always an option.
Why Don’t We Talk About Shame?
Letter to 21st Century Shame
To all the self-help books that tell you all that stands between you and a good day is you.
To all the weight loss, beach body ready by the end of the quarantine challenges.
To all the save-the-planet-for-the-kids-but-feel-bad-about-yourself-and-what-you-eat diets.
To all the how-to-make-sure-you-stay-productive lists.
To all the you-should-enjoy-the-time-you-have-right-now notes.
To the take-care-of-your-mental-health checklists.
To all the status updates that remind you what to be thankful for.
To all the privilege they point out that you have.
To all the stories that make you feel bad.
To all the people that ask you to give something.
To the relief you feel that you are healthy.
To the million phone calls you don’t want to have.
To the fear you have of saying leave-me-alone even now.
To staying in bed all day.
To not changing out of your PJs.
To not washing dishes.
To not doing spring cleaning.
To not reorganising your closet.
To not reading.
To not writing.
To not being creative.
To not being productive.
To not doing much yet.
To not yet.
I am gently letting myself off all these hooks. And I am taking all my ripped out pieces with me.
Sincerely
Shamelessly,
A human being.
Why Don’t We Talk About Shame?
We can’t but talk about the thing in front of us.
Surely if we have the privilege to speak we also have the responsibility of speaking things worthwhile; otherwise, we’re just wasting breath.
And no doubt this is a time when losing breath is a real and fearful thing.
I wouldn’t normally do this because the world is large and many people have many things to say about all that is happening in it.
But since we are talking about shame…my dear friend, I want you to know there is no shame in being afraid.
There is no shame in doubting.
There is no shame in being confused.
There is no shame in being angry.
In being frustrated.
In being worried.
In feeling lost.
There is no shame in feeling.
But please, hear me, none of that is sustainable living.
There is no shame in tears.
But at some point, the tears will go.
There is no shame in hands shaking, bile up your throat, stomach-churning anxiety.
But at some point, peace will come.
There is no shame in running scared and closing doors and closing all outside windows to the world.
But at some point, the door will have to open again.
And everything surrounding you may still bear the scent of fear and the mark of the unknown, but take heart, there is One who has overcome.
There is no shame in waiting.
But please, please, do not wait too long.
Why Don’t We Talk About Shame?
Self-Care
I know it’s been a bad day when I can’t be bothered to wash my face at night. You know, cleanse it, scrub it, do that whole routine.
I know I’ve had a tough time when I don’t have the energy to go through that process, when I can’t be bothered to care about all the goop I’ll find in my skin the next day. I just get into bed and go to sleep without having washed the day away from my pores.
I do wash it in the mornings after. Always. I wake up early if I have to just to give myself enough time. But I give myself the night. I allow tears to stain my face and all the dirt I’ve acquired in life to sit with me, in me, to exist alongside me in my bed: close, real and unavoidable.
Surely, at this point, if you know anything about skincare then you know that the one thing you must do, even if you’re too tired to live, is to clean your face and take off your makeup; your future self will thank you for it.
But I don’t.
Sorry.
And I’m not saying it’s good, I’m just not saying it’s bad. I’m saying I’m giving myself the night. I’m allowing myself time for the grief and the goop and the dirt because sometimes you need it. And maybe, my future self will one day thank me for that because maybe I need to be kind to my heart and not my skin.
Why Don’t We Talk About Shame?
Confessional
I am ashamed of many things.
I am ashamed of my bad mental health days and how much sugar I eat.
I am ashamed of the constellation of zits that have made their home on my chin.
I am ashamed of my frizzy hair and how squeaky my voice gets when I’m excited.
I’m ashamed of how loud I am.
I am ashamed of most of my writing and half of my thoughts.
I am ashamed of all my early poems and that I sometimes love cliches.
I am ashamed I don’t know famous writers by name and that I forget everyone’s birthday.
I am ashamed of my body when men call after me in the street.
I am ashamed to say I don’t know or that I don’t understand.
I am ashamed to say I can’t.
I am ashamed to say I have moved on because that’ll show I never cared.
I am ashamed to say there are many days that I am less than.
I am ashamed to say I don’t know half of my own history.
I am ashamed to say I’m not as perfect as I ought to be.
I am ashamed to say I subscribe to those viral phrases on Instagram but how glorious to be told you are enough.
I am ashamed of a third of my life decisions and all of their consequences.
I am ashamed to admit to my own inadequacy.
I am ashamed of my shame and tired of it.
Why don’t we talk about shame?
Perhaps because of this.
Perhaps because it’s shameful.
Perhaps because nobody ever asked.
So, why don’t we talk about shame?
Carmen
After Ocean Vuong
What are you but the eyes of your father on your mother’s face
And the meeting point of all their fears
Parallel lines converging in the moment you discovered poetry.
Someday I’ll learn to love you, Carmen
And not just the idea of you but the real you
Not in this country where in your name they’ve baptised every other street
Or where the curly-haired woman in the Mercadona,
That shares your complexion, grabs wholly hold
Of the name you share as if it was never yours.
Carmen, dear, they either sanctify or condemn you
In their operas and their songs, they immortalise you
As more than woman but are you.
Can you look far beyond into the future to look past yourself.
Your mother wrote before you.
Her mother before her.
Carmen, you cannot atone for others’ sins.
Forgive whoever lied to you
And taught you the entry point into yourself begins in ‘men’
Put that barrel between your stubborn teeth and fire away at your amygdala,
Let go of being misunderstood.
Things don’t matter that much.
The most beautiful thing about your name is how you say it.
This is a poem I wrote after reading a poem by Ocean Vuong who had actually written it after Rogers Reeves and after Frank O’Hara.
You can find all the poems at the links below:
Someday I’ll learn to love Ocean Vuong https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/05/04/someday-ill-love-ocean-vuong
Someday I’ll learn to love Roger Reeves https://poets.org/poem/someday-ill-love-roger-reeves-audio-only
Someday I’ll learn to love Frank O’Hara https://readalittlepoetry.wordpress.com/2016/04/06/katy-by-frank-ohara/
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The line present in all these poems, whether it be in the title or the poem itself, is Someday I’ll learn to love…(whoever’s name it is). It’s a poem about the self, and self-love and acceptance. Someday I’ll learn to love is such a powerful line that I believe speaks true of all our human experiences. So, write your own poem! Write your own Someday I’ll learn to love and bravely add your name after that. Don’t worry if the poem is “good” or if it makes sense. You don’t have to show it to anybody. You don’t have to do anything with it but write it and bring that someday closer.
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Ps. If you feel like you want to share it, the comments section is open for your art. Share it or just send it to me. I would love to read your love letters to yourselves.
inside the speechless poet
…it feels as if the words have muddled in my brain and even though i can see them there on the metaphorical pages of my electronic devices they are bent and the beginnings of some are the endings of none and words extend over other words and others are shortened as if sucked into themselves and they’re slipping through my fingers and i miss them in my brain as my neurones keep firing but the circuit seems to be missing a piece where the left side of my brain must be damaged for my right hand isn’t working and the centre of my consciousness doesn’t seem to be connecting with my core and the depths of me feel like they’re exploding but in this tight space held hostage by tendons it feels nuclear and the repercussions unknown BOOM and it’s gone off and now i’m trying to gather all the pieces of myself within myself i try to express them or repress them–and i feel i want to move my mouth but it doesn’t seem to be connected to my stomach or any of the other parts of me that are able to feel and i feel i’m running out of breath in this marathon i try to keep up with my emotions but my words always seem to fail whilst my mind can run on the same endless loop like a broken megaphone screeching round the same tune sucked within a vortex of its own black matter turned into a black hole guarded by a meteor shower of self-doubts and getting stuck into saturn’s infinity rings of brokenness and wholeness in this solar system of my art the brightest star is my heart with its twisted valves trying to push oxygenated blood into areas long gone giving me phantom limb syndrome making me miss something that has not yet been mine i’m renouncing the plutos of my life the have been but never really supposed to be there i’m realigning planets and moving myself closer to the SON…
(for the One I love the most)
There is dirt under my nails
There is dry blood on my limbs
There are pieces of my armour falling
There are things I left on the battlefield
But You were the one to save me
I did not fall by the enemy’s sword
You gave me my life as a prize of war
For I have put my trust in You
realbeautifulthings 