Some demonstrations of sorrow (Draft).

I found a dead deer in the road
at the same time my dad told me not to look;
I glimpsed at this road and again,
perhaps I just wanted to be sure,
that the deer was still there and dead
but it was gone as he drove away;
my father, in red sweater, pulled free
from daydream.

Some demonstrations of sorrow, I thought,
as am I: an absence of birth,
spilling; red late autumn;
hips slung against cloth;
the right type of
etherness

when I got to the university,
I was freezing. Young trees
had their downfall in whirlwinds and meadows;
my shadow shrugged, as for much of my life it would
but it was also unmistakable the sadness I had

I do not feel it because I don’t let myself feel it.
[I spaced out, spaz]
I’ll be murmuring over the person I reject
from myself; she is not me, she is not a daughter.
Membrane of winter, she wanted to jump out the window
in its torn azure,
and I did too in this dissociative state.

Sometimes, strangers just sense when you’re not okay,
I never thought it would happen to me—really, why would it?
Shrouded in sticks,
and late, someone sat down on the steps with me;
didn’t ask what happened, what was wrong,
and frankly, I don’t think I wanted her to.
We talked here and there, not as friends,
but as honest strangers in a theatre-house.

I really don’t know if she knew something was up,
but it makes me feel better if she did ‘cause it gives me
hope again—for what, I’m still figuring out—
and I wanted to thank her, but knowing what to say would be hard;
Thanks for sitting with me while I felt dissociative?
No, that’s too weird.
I don’t know.

It was never about the deer, I hope you know that.
While that did happen, I just never found it
when my dad told me not to look.

© 2021 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.


Written for the 12/14/2021 final dVerse poetics prompt of this year.


48 thoughts on “Some demonstrations of sorrow (Draft).”

  1. Fantastic telling, and it does remind me of talking to strangers in public transportation… I remember a veiled lady coming from a funeral once… she talked and I listened. and when she left she gave me a flower… I do not know what I did, maybe I just existed.

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Thank you so much, Bjorn! I cannot speak for that woman, but knowing that someone was there while we felt like we were drowning, it means much more than you’d realize. Just being there is enough in itself. ❤

      Liked by 1 person

  2. This is incredibly deep and poignant. I especially resonate with; “Young trees had their downfall in whirlwinds and meadows; my shadow shrugged, as for much of my life it would but it was also unmistakable the sadness I had.”💝💝

    Liked by 2 people

  3. You hooked me with “young trees had their downfall in whirlwinds and meadows”. It was good to see you stretch yourself a bit, and mine your introspection minus some of the Gothic and macabre. An enjoyable read.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Thank you, Glenn, so much. I’m trying a different approach in my writing these days. I struggle being blunt and honest in poetry, so I’m messing around with a narrative voice that works—a tad introspective but dissociative too. Glad you could enjoy it.

      Like

    1. Thank you, I’m glad you could see the touches of alienation that I felt in this experience; I wasn’t sure if it could be noticed in the poem, so I’m happy you picked up on that. 🙂

      I think this was one of the first times I’ve had it happen to me when I never thought I could feel comfort just from a stranger’s presence. That silent acknowledgement was enough for me.

      Liked by 1 person

  4. ‘We talked here and there, not as friends,
    but as honest strangers in a theatre-house.’

    This image of the kindness of a stranger, an anchor in a dark night of the soul, really speaks to me. The whole poem highlights so well the experience of depression and the desperation which accompanies it.

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Thank you so much, Ingrid. I spoke to this stranger before, they were a classmate but somehow we just never drifted as friends. As strangers, we were better off as it seemed, and while she probably did not know it, she helped me that day just by sitting on the steps in the building. The depression/desperation was definitely relevant to finding some anchor to tug me back to reality.

      Liked by 2 people

  5. You are a genius storyteller, Lucy.

    I really like these lines:

    We talked here and there, not as friends,
    but as honest strangers in a theatre-house.

    That is such an apt and perfect description of the relationship. Just love it.


    David

    Liked by 2 people

  6. I haven’t read your work in a while and in this poem I read a shift — what used to be aesthetic obfuscation — a whirl of meant sense — clears here with the word “dissociation,” which is a deeply psychical term and usually issues from damage. The emotional clarity here doesn’t sacrifice any art of the blur (which you surely have) but puts it to use where the heart-lines are truest, which is what poetry is for, I think … As Grace said, ’tis writ with beautiful honesty, and so powerful for that.

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Brendan, thank you dearly! I’m messing with my style a bit, I’m finding much more relief by not being as confusing in imagery. That’s not a bad thing in itself, but it allows me to be more direct and honest with some bits of obfuscation in between. Older poems of mine have that problem where it’s hard to grapple what’s going on, and I preferred it for awhile since I was hiding behind that, but now I’m working how to incorporate a combination of both–honesty to make sense with and obfuscation of the finer details.

      Thank you so much for the analysis and kind words. ❤ ❤

      Liked by 1 person

  7. I reread this today, Lucy, and I so enjoyed the slipping in and out of different narratives and moods. I loved the whole of the second stanza especially:

    “Some demonstrations of sorrow, I thought,
    as am I: an absence of birth,
    spilling; red late autumn;
    hips slung against cloth;
    the right type of
    etherness.”

    But so many great phrases, my favourites:

    “membrane of winter”

    “the window and its torn azure”

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Ah, Sunra, thank you so very much! Slipping in and out of different narratives–that’s a great way to describe it. I’m trying out different styles to produce more honesty in my writing; I guess I also want it to be disconnected in some areas like an emotional distance, implementing honesty as well, while still having my own signature to it with the imageries. It’s a work in progress. 😀

      Thank you again, I so appreciate your kind comments. ❤

      Liked by 1 person

  8. “but it makes me feel better if she did ‘cause it gives me
    hope again—for what, I’m still figuring out—” sometimes that glimmer of hope (for goodness knows what!) is just what we need to keep going. Love this, Lucy. ❤️

    Liked by 2 people

  9. Nice to read you again Lucy. Missed your red on black. This had a different pulse and temperature, which felt very genuine. I felt a nudge closer to you in this. Their was a vulnerability and perhaps uncertainty, that drew me in to listen, as to a friend who needed to talk. I’ve spent most of my life wondering just who I am. 74 and I still don’t know. When I write, I simply turn the pen, so to speak, over to whomever is home in my head at the time, and let them write whatever moves them. When I come back to edit, it is not unusual for someone else to be in residence, so the poem takes on a different slant. I can rewrite the same poem many times, and every time it is different, frequently quite different. I’ll find myself saying, “who the hell wrote this”.? I am in constant flux, so perhaps I am permanently disassociated. But I always write what I mean while I am writing it. Like my blog says at the top. “Mostly truth, yet partly fiction. Tales of human contradiction.” I really loved this piece Lucy, and so very nice to see you posted again. Sorry about my rambling, I am on some new meds for my heart failure. Doc thinks they are interacting with my arthritis meds — but I like it… feeling better.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Thanks, Rob. It’s good to be back! I’m glad you could feel the vulnerability in this, I’ve been trying my hand at different styles in poetry. I’m trying to work up one I’m comfortable with that’s both dissociative and honest, but still has my own signature to it. It’s a process, hahaha.

      I can resonate with you on that. I’m only 20 and still figuring myself out—who is the person in my head? Hell if know, not even poetry can help with that. Sometimes, I look back at old poems and think, “Did I really write this? Because I can’t remember…” so I resonate with what you’re saying about being dissociative and letting different parts of yourself take over. I think the important thing is, what you say, writing something that means something to you regardless of what others think.

      I’m glad you could enjoy this piece, Rob. And never apologize for that, I think it was a good stream of consciousness letting it all flow out, not quite rambling. I’m so glad you’re feeling better, hope you have a happy holiday and new year.

      Liked by 1 person

    1. I’ll never understand it, Lynn, really, it just has the opposite effect! If you didn’t want me to look, then don’t say anything until WAY after the fact, haha. Thank you so much, I’m glad you enjoyed this. 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

  10. Luv the metaphor your shadow being written in. That part of your being there seen or unseen. The you that is taken along whether you look or turn inwards as life and its surprises occur

    Much💟love

    Liked by 2 people

  11. This is almost prose poetry, also seems sort of stream of consciousness,hard to define or pin down but that’s unimportant, because it works. You bring a figure to life in front of us, a woman stretched so thin she is ‘a membrane of winter,” deeply vulnerable, yet somehow sure of so many things that matter. It’s easy to feel that no one understands or cares(and often justified) but sometimes there is a person who will give us a link back to who and where we are. The metaphor of the seen/unseen deer is mysterious and powerful as well. Truly excellent writing.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Oh my word, you really hit this one on the head. That was EXACTLY the headspace I felt in that experience, and I’m happy you picked up on that in my poem. That person I mentioned in the poem brought me back down to reality, that reminded me where I was and what my beliefs and my faith is in (as you said). It would take a bit before things would be normal again in my mind, but I think back on this with hope in the way that someone silently knew what was swimming around in my head and they sat with me anyway. I’m not really sure if she knew, who knows, I like to think she did as it makes me feel better about it all, hahaha.

      Thank you so very much for your kind words and analysis. ❤

      Liked by 1 person

  12. Like Joy, I felt this as a stream of consciousness, taking the reader through a struggle to understand what is being experienced. And I cheered at the meeting with the honest stranger. Compelling writing Lucy.

    Liked by 2 people

  13. torn azure.

    what a spectacular trope.

    the flowing confessional, the detached pensiveness, the vulnerability – all come through without being maudlin or trite. well done ~

    Liked by 1 person

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