broken walls and narratives

A not so revolutionary blog about feminism, socialism, activism, travel, nature, life, etc.

Archive for the category “poetry”

Bolshevik Girl

The longer I live in this world, the harder it is to dream and believe in things.  Life becomes a path of unanswerable questions, existential crisis, and the call to be stronger, less fearful, feel less, and forget more.   It is wearying.

Bolshevik Girl

H. Bradford

9/25/17

Be a Bolshevik,

Win the war

Push down the cold and hunger

Take the grain and fattest animals

But take no prisoners

Shed no tears

Be a Bolshevik, girl.

No complaints.

No fears.

Bury the bodies at the forest’s edge.

Hide the losses.

Clean the wounds.

Be a Bolshevik.

be stoic.

be cruel.

Hold on to something, an idea or a gun.

Darken your heart against faith in good things.

Toughen up or the world will roll over you.

Forget your dreams and how to dream them.

Or they will choke a century of dreamers

with your blood.

 

Image result for bolshevik girl

Advertisements

This Old House

This Old House

H. Bradford

9/13/17

Paint blood on the door.

They’re coming for you,

and your soul,

and your sins.

Howling for more than you can possibly give.

Prepare your confessions for the crimes that were his.

Take the lashing,

bow low your thick head.

Hold down the old house,

its your will

and their wind.

Give them some fat, give them some skin.

If it all falls apart,

no one will win.

https://fineartamerica.com/images/artworkimages/medium/1/that-very-old-house-murphy-elliott.jpg

“That Very Old House” art by Murphy Elliot

The Hollow Monument

The Hollow Monument

H. Badford

9/12/17

Every self is a hollow monument,

an ode to accomplishment, attachment, advancement, and the other virtues of civilization.

Behind each strong facade is fiber glass fillers and paper mache.

A hollow space to be filled with depression or distraction.

Together, we are a marble city,

made tidy by endless sweeping

and the tireless scouring of each surface,

until it all shines right and white.

Some sweepers and sculptors know it is all for show,

but without scripts and statues,

brooms and grooming,

What would we be?

What would we know?

Image may contain: sky and outdoor

(A poem that I wrote while thinking about Turkmenistan, but also the social construction of the self/mechanisms of social control)

The Thinking Universe

The Thinking Universe

H. Bradford

9/12/17

I am the thinking universe.

I am its ego.

Its self doubt.

4.5 billion years of evolution to think the thoughts I thought today,

to write them down,

signalizing to life on earth another syllable in the tongue of infinity.

Words are electricity, pheromones, symbiosis, and erosion.

My joy and my pain,

expressed prettily on paper are the voices of

sharks and slime molds,

cycads and cyclones,

Every thing…

Every living and non-living thing-

exists in me and through me.

The wings of moths are my whisper

And the patter of cat’s feet are my cries.

Yet, everything vanishes

and everything dies.

The universe doesn’t even know it is speaking!

It doesn’t mourn its dead!

Its worth, words, and connections will die in my head.

Image result for slime mold

an image of slime molds from Wikipedia.

Josephine

Josephine

H. Bradford

9/11/17

He must have said something shocking

as they walked in the garden

or talked conspiracy over tea.

And what exactly was he?

That tsar?

Was he dashing and magnetic like her ex-husband?

Or was he a terror to behold?

She died suddenly after he left.

All of her lovers wept.

After all, she was still pretty in her old age.

Even I felt a little sad.

I can be as grandiose as a general or a tsar.

The tyrant in me mourns her beauty.

Image result for josephine bonaparte

Going Extinct

Going Extinct

H. Bradford

9-11-17

There is an archaeopteryx on my arm.

It matches the fossil in my chest,

the amber in my head,

and the megalodon

that I don as armor

when I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.

The more I go extinct,

the more I think about ferns and feathered dinosaurs.

The things that lived before-

leaving impressions in rock

and bones made of stone.

I will leave nothing.

I am too soft and temporary.

Image result for archaeopteryx

You

(I had a dream wherein someone wrote me a series of “hate poems” on post-it notes.  I found these poems under a table.  While I don’t remember the poems from my dreams, this is a reconstruction of one of the poems.)

You

H. Bradford

9/7/17

You are not a tornado or electricity,

You are an island of nightmares set adrift from the continents.

You are not lips or the stars,

You are the gap between them and the frustration space brings.

You are not a memory or a journey,

You are a beggar passed on the road- whose hands and eyes grasped for more.

You are not for warmth and wanting,

You are yourself….

and that should explain everything.

 

 

Anna Akhmatova Was Here

Anna Akhmatova was Here

H. Bradford

7/27/17

(Anna Akhmatova was a celebrated Russian poet who was censored during Soviet times.  She was an aristocrat who did not flee the country after the Russian revolution.  While I am from a political tradition on the other side of history, I like her poetry and reflected upon her a little while visiting Tashkent, where she lived during WWII.  Some of the poem’s images come from Bishkek though…)

Anna Akhmatova was here.

She wrote of tractors while beating down tears the for friends and lovers

ploughed under the earth.

Sentimentality is subversive,

so it is best to forget the things that colored the gray cities.

By the time the snow falls, memories will become monuments

to hide in the overgrown wilds of city parks

or to tuck behind the shuttered museum.

These statues must be stored safely out of sight and out of mind,

lest they become unorthodox idols to a high class poetess or the feminine divine.

Anna Akhmotova was here.

Tashkent was a stop in a long migration of mourning

and a hermitage for the heart that would not leave.

As for me, I am just a traveler and only ghosts stay behind.

So, city is empty of tourists and souls in transit.

I am also a little emptier.

Image result for anna akhmatova

 

 

 

Gray July Days

Gray July Days

H. Bradford

7/27/17

These gray July days,

They feel more like October or November,

when even the birds have somewhere better to be.

These days are thick with quiet, sorrowed anticipation of the cold

and creeping anxiety for stomach flu and Christmas.

Why today must the clouds hang so heavy and gray?

If it as if they are made of tungsten or tin,

and leaden with snow and rain.

Here, winter is always coming.

Midsummer wind and wet is winter’s promise and portent.

 

 

An Attachment to Dark Spaces

An Attachment to Dark Spaces

H. Bradford

7/27/17

(A poem that is generically about how feelings, attachment, and rejection can feel a lot like the universe itself.  The poem can be applied to many situations where I have wanted to assert my existence through emotion.)

 

I won’t make you my surrogate for the universe,

a stand in for its vast, indifferent cold.

You aren’t a stunt double for its absence of God

or the black tide of time that gives and takes,

but mostly takes.

You feel like a universe that stretches outward into yawning space,

becoming so distant it tears itself apart.

But, you won’t be my force of falling apart.

I can do that just fine on my own.

Surely, I adored you…

if only as a metaphor for everything I hate about myself and living

as a gray speck locked in the cruelty of cognizance in time and space.

I wanted you,

if only as a passing addiction to my place in the abyss.

And I wished so much that my existence mattered to you or to the cosmos you came to represent.

https://i0.wp.com/cdn.spacetelescope.org/archives/images/screen/potw1418a.jpg

Post Navigation