the parade

the familiar strings playing in the background
as the memories of the past in parade floats,
light up the empty streets of my mind:

My grandfather was old spice; He owned
a horse and promised to name it
Rainbow after my Little Pony on his sickbed.

My grandmother matriachal in her
peranakan suit; She powdered me like
a cream puff and bribed me with sweets
from tedious, confusing days in school.

My two uncles' bedroom aglow from the glistening
goldfish tank; we bounced on their large king sized bed
and talked about things that had wings.

My aunt's creaky old stairs up
the attic as the perfect perch
to play prank on the visiting
korean friend; their conversation was music
with no lyrics that drifted in and out of our schemes.

My sister beckoning to me from the aging rambutan tree;
my fat chubby limbs that could not
lift me away from the window's sill.

how strange that at a certain age,
one's memory of the details becomes
a glistening stage with its dancers twirling
so beautifully on their own that the
insidious ties that string them up
hum in an effortless melody,
rising and falling with the dreams
of a night filled with
stars, only stars.

St Kilda (United Kingdom) - Atlas of Remote Islands (Judith Schalansky)

Who can stare into

a woman’s empty, hungry heart

and not go blind?

She is a loaded gun in

unsure hands. A seagull

that knows nothing

about the currents that buffet

her circuitous journey.

She can board a ship of promises

and still return empty-handed.

There is no woman that cannot carve

a hell out of heaven from the

miseries of her loves.

Give her your boxing gloves and

she’ll use them in her kitchen too.

When she finally answers your call,

you might want to hang up before she

speaks. For she,

cannot tell you the contents of

a rock anymore than she

can tell you how to be a man.

Such a woman is a ghost

that browns the letters of

the feminist’s manifesto.

Were there no God, she would

have grown the tree. 

So pluck the dying

infant from her breast.

Give her nothing but the breeze

upon her rags and kiss her

once. Tell her,

how tomorrow’s eternity

is today’s exile

and trust her,

to keep the flames

burning - then

leave.

Rudolph Island - Atlas of Remote Islands

Rudolph Island Franz Josef Land (Russia)

(taken from wayfaring.info)

On the dance floor in the 80s

with New Order in our blood

we named our pretties and

drinks in the syncopated missteps of

our drunken routine.

How many more can our eyes behold

till the bottle contents ferment into gold,

crackling between our toes

as its life drains away into the vastness

of our emptiness, as old as

the ice untouched, unmoved

in its passive aggression over

the liquid lines of bodies passing

through the night. 

Bear Island - Atlas of Remote Islands

Bear Island Spitzbergen (Norway)

 

(taken from wikipedia)

Every lonely man

travels to find a bird but

ignores the whale carcass, 

the melting icebergs and

the empty nest.

Every lonely man shoots

for himself a bird and

pockets his treasured find

deep in his shattered heart

bludgeoned senseless by the

calls of home.

Every lonely man

documents his desire with

a taxidermist’s eye, under the

open glare of the artic sun. He

makes it back but leaves

the man behind. 

No, that hand hold is for your mum

Excerpted from "Hands" by Sarah Kay



"One time I grabbed my dad's hand so that our fingers interlocked perfectly. But he changed position saying "No, that hand hold is for your mum!"

Something special is
hidden
and given
to only one
or maybe
two.
What is special is not just the
glorious sunrise, the well-guarded
recipe, the aha-moments of life.
I'm reminded that they are found in everyday things, slipping through our fingers and lifting its voice to sing in the lazy afternoon. It is your hand in mine - still holding on
even when I'm flying away.
How wonderful the
imprint
of common
things.

Lonely island (Atlas of Remote Islands - Judith Schalansky)

Frozen courage in a shot glass
tittering
in the hands of one whose knotted
nerves belabour the
slow. passing. of time.

The morning came.

... an old woman with no teeth,
no credit card, no reading glasses,
no watch, no words.

In the darkness it grew.

... this old woman with ,
jet black hair, stone raisined eyes,
varicose heart and livered soul.

And broke into silence.

... my old woman with wounds,
a siren's song, unfinished letters,
unbearing the gifts of hell.

To be forgotten once again.