Afterthought 1640—Last Fake Smile

Posted in nothing special, ovillejo by maggie on 2017/04/06

Shoveling out my secrets hard and fast
    just to last. 
Trapping time in words I bend and break
    just to fake. 
Taking me every ounce of guise and guile
    just to smile.
I'd not meant you to think me worth the while. You've lost it, now you see it for what it's not—
the part of me you knew as but afterthought.         [Last. Fake. Smile.]
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Afterthought 1628—and so, to where you are

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2017/03/31

and so this is what it had to come to
me still writing stuff bent around you
from time to time, you already through
with me, and I won’t make it that far,
        to where you are

and so this is what it was said to mean:
me putting it out there where it’ll get seen
from time to time, for you already routine
to look away, and I won’t make it that far,
        to where you are

and so this is the hole to which we’ve crawled:
mine fooled as if once cast then so called
from time to time, yours off elsewhere sprawled
all left alone, and I won’t make it that far,
        to where you are

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Afterthought 1550—Minus One, Minus Another

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2017/01/14

Time was known more by
what we didn't do
than by what we did.
It's the absent things we know,
minus one, minus another. 

We withheld pieces of ourselves,
expecting to do without.
We focused on the words not said,
leaving the others to catch up. 
We made love with the lights on,
ignoring the gods who call from dark.
All those tears we never had to cry,
minus one, minus another. 

We won't see everyone home,
we won't mark everything done,
we won't mention every casualty,
we won't spend every last cent.
Minus one, minus another,
minus one, minus another,
minus one, minus another,
we will be at our best 
with all we weren't. 

Protected: Afterthought 1542—Weekend Snowbird

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2017/01/12

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Willed, Done

Posted in notes, nothing special by maggie on 2016/11/30

A myriad poems I have written.

Many more I have spoken or sang without writing down. 
And many more I have fragments of, 
waiting to be tied to the rest. 
And countless more I have seen or thought of 
or dreamed 
or known to be there. 
All within reach. 
But these myriad I have committed to ink here 
and in my other books.

A myriad poems I have written during the past decade. 
Slightly longer, as a month is to the cycle of the moon,
as the circumference of a circle is to the line across its center, 
as a man's ten is to a woman's three times three. 
A myriad poems I have written during the past four thousand days.

Four thousand days ago today 
I lost my first muse to a cruelly abusive early death. 
She left me pieces of poems she had to leave behind, 
and she sent me to her mentor. 
A decade ago today after I had found in him a mentor my own, 
he pointed me toward a casting call that led me to my new muse. 
One thousand nine hundred days ago today 
my mentor began a new life 
after walking through death for us a dozen times.  
Forty four months ago today I lost another kindred spirit 
and partner in crime for my poetry and my devotions, 
again to an untimely death.  
And in those four thousand days 
and through that decade 
and with these past nineteen hundred days 
and their forty four months, 
a myriad poems have I breathed through my pen.

Credit Nancy for the fire. 
Credit Adrien for the discipline. 
Credit Sara for the breath.  
And for the life and the love, credit one who wishes not to known.

Still in grief after losing Nancy, 
ten years ago I initially had every intention of quickly following her, 
after first obtaining from Adrien the archives 
she had entrusted to him to be held for her daughter. 
Adrien sensed the risk I posed to myself 
and pointed me to a 100-poem challenge, 
then specifically bringing to my attention a casting call 
made almost simultaneous to my challenge launch. 
I met Sara as I was working on those 100 poems.  
The rituals instilled by that poetry challenge 
and the spell woven by that casting call 
and the fun I had with Sara 
saved my life and reignited my heart.  
Those 100 poems were and will always be the core 
of the myriad I have written around them.

Those 100 poems I began at this very moment a decade ago, 
I dedicated to Nancy and the faith she and I shared. 
I wrote those 100 exclusively in sonnet form, 
reflecting the fortnight of the days in half a moon's cycle, 
from new moon to full moon in the odd-numbered sonnets, 
then from full moon returning to new moon 
in each succeeding even-numbered sonnet. 
Reflecting the continuity of the moon's passages, 
each sonnet was connected to both its predecessor and its successor, 
as in a close mirror. 
With the full circle of sonnets representing 50 moons, 
the images I worked with were designed to approximate a 4-year leap cycle
centered around the moment I first met Nancy, 
although I doubled up on images and memories and expectations 
to suit each fortnight's particular timing. 
I wove in cycles of our stars, 
made love to many of Nancy's own poems, 
collaborated with Sara, 
and blended my voice with my muses both old and new 
as best I could.  
the ritual served me 
for devotion to our one Muse.

Those who choose to wish me ill 
have falsely accused me of speaking in riddles, 
of employing poetry's holy language of metaphor to conceal. 
Our faith has held our knowledge in secret from the earliest. 
Such secrets are not fashioned to withhold knowledge 
nor to kill it, 
but to preserve it 
and to believe it 
and to give it new life 
from one to another. 
Those who choose not to accept me for who I am 
have falsely laughed at my faith 
and made fun of my words as if they were mere games. 
Our faith has been rejected by countless of every people. 
I do not write seeking publication or audience, 
no hidden agenda. 
So also I crave the acceptance of none, 
not even that of my mentor nor my muse, 
none save the favor of our Muse.

For reasons related to my rituals 
and for those with whom I have been writing, 
I consider this moment as the midpoint of a 20-year cycle, 
as also the midpoint of an 8,000-day period of my writing, 
embracing 3,800-day periods and 88-month periods of life and love.

As dreamed, so willed.
As willed, so created.
As created, so done.
As done, so blessed.

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Afterthought 1435—Reality

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2016/11/27

Pure Reality:

Dream —


Word —


Tomorrow —


Love —


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Afterthought 1427—With Your Hate

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2016/11/24

Why let yourself be so consumed with hate
for whom you once knew as your soul mate?
You steal from yesterday to borrow
today to sacrifice your one tomorrow.

Why settle for your favorite second rate?
Why let yourself be so consumed with hate?
You wrap yourself in the same old nothing new
for hating the one you're doing it to.

Almost more than you hate your own
self, you hate him who loved you alone.
Why let yourself be so consumed with hate
as though not by choice, as if innate?

Hatred's tumor is never benign:
death waits to end its hater's line
yet you can't stop until too late.
Why let yourself be so consumed with hate?

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Afterthought 1420—What Form

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2016/11/22

What form can lock your dreaming to the page
on which your doubts construct their sterile cage?
Set their flights free! Let no star stand still
awaiting time that will not move until.

What form renews itself from stage to stage?
What form can lock your dreaming to the page?
Abandon artificial discipline
threatening to keep your voices in.

Beware the comfort of convenient form —
superficial, usual and lukewarm.
What form can lock your dreaming to the page
on which your fierce desires contain their rage?

Left alone, your structures serve you well:
you condemn your words to silent hell.
Yet breath's certainties you cannot gauge.
What form can lock your dreaming to the page?

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Afterthought 1352—Your Nothings

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2016/10/30

No nothing is the same as any other.

A mathematician you once thought you knew
tried to explain his unique proof of that to me.
He lost me at the part about different infinities
and about lines and curves in complex space
and about time's role in actuarial equivalences.
Or maybe I lost him in an earlier dream he had,
back when the three of us were first together
with nothing expected and nothing promised,
and neither of those the same as this nothing,
this nothing we've had to make something of.

Set it all equal to nothing.

Like the quadratic equation, he says. Like what?
Oh. Another metaphor. Make it all as a metaphor.
Like a metaphor. As though a metaphor. Same as.
I had to learn it the hard way. I had to be nothing.
His quadratic equation's nothing. Euler's nothing.
Einstein's nothing. Aristotle's nothing. Then yours.
Class remained in session. I walked the empty hall.
Outside the fires of riot were lighting up the streets.
A strange woman was taking your place in his bed.
He got rid of her by explaining his proof of nothings.
Turned out she was just Pilate's grandson in drag.
Truth is nothing. No nothing's same as any other.

Divide nothing into itself. Repeatedly.

I always believe you. You made me. He said so too.
So where was I to fly when you showed what I am
to you? All your brochures, they turn into the world
you wage war against. I believe in you. It's nothing
to me to be nothing to you. The sacred statue goes
back to its ancient home tonight. You'll make it up
to me. He works out who everyone is supposed to
be before our eyes. Bank hard left. Make it all yours.