Blanket Sea

Arts & Literary Magazine

Category: Poetry (page 2 of 5)

“Notes for My Therapist – 1” by Feby Joseph

I could be wading
in the effervescent joy of a Mozart concerto
or the tranquil beauty of Monet’s lilies, but
it’s never far.
Perhaps the next room?

It could be even as far as the moon
but it will travel at uncharted speed
and explode like ripe mangoes in the mouth –
The golden rivulets running down
the chin to stain white clothes.

I only have a few hints of its arrival.
I can feel it under my skin – It starts to numb.
I am only given a few hunches.
This ominous déjà vu.
This déjà vu.

Déjà vu.

I could be wading
in joy… (yet)
I still wear white again.

 

 

Hailing from the beautiful South Indian coastal state of Kerala, Feby Joseph is a spiritual vagabond who is still trying to figure it all out. At present all his formal education has landed him a job in a desert – in finance – so he works with numbers while words waltz around in his head. Some of his recent poems have appeared on Café Dissensun, Oratoria, and EntropyMag.

“a couple of thoughts to help you understand depression” by Kristin A Trumble

I.

sunbeams criss cross overhead,
above the reach of my live-in pallor.
I am painted
in varying shades
of concrete and shadow.

I cannot stand up
straight enough to feel their light.

My foot has gotten caught
in the legs of this chair.
My arm is stuck between the bed and the wall.

I only rise after sundown
to spit yesterday out of my bloated belly

to watch clouds of smoke circle matted hair

detached from this thing
under my skin,
I focus on gray above,
grime at eye level.

I wait, solemn, for it to fade away.

 

II.

 

it has no color, the blanket

I’m under and the air is cardboard

the only movement anywhere, a tickle,

pin prick, behind my eyeballs, won’t tell me why it’s there, it won’t
name itself.

It just hovers, a faint buzzing loud enough to be frustrating but not loud enough for anyone else
to hear.

it clogs up my thoughts so I can’t remember why I’m here, my head
swollen with rain

only lost images bleed through and tear like wet paper
crumpled in a ball and discarded in the corner.

 

 

Kristin A Trumble is a graduate student and mother in Minneapolis, Minnesota.  A lifelong writer, she is just beginning the adventure of sharing her work with others. She spends much of her free time with her German shepherd dog or in a public library.  She could not bear life without books and credits them with keeping her alive and rooted in the world.

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Poetry by Megan Wildhood

Insomnia at the Beach

The moon reflects the sun white
but the rocks reflect the moon black.

They are missing the point
or else are they being themselves?

This is why I am here, lowered carefully
by muscle memory

to slick stones’ peaks barely
above a seething sea.

I love the froth, the product
of innocent rage, that gathers at the edges

of the stones like a conflicted team.
I love how small I am, how obvious

the truth of my powerlessness is
and how here, away from home,

those things are safe. My home on Sunset Hill,

is small, too, but so I feel large there, like the Olympics
beyond Bainbridge Island I can see from the balcony

that only has room to stand; like I cannot hide,
like I’ve stolen the place of the cement-gray sky;

the ocean, the teamworking spume,
the dark that shows all the crevices

of rare but stubborn light. I hold my breath a lot.
This soggy city shines like a kid with a fever.

I want to be the smallness of who I am,
though it’s dangerous, because it is the truth.

In a powerful kingdom where most of the power
comes from never knowing about it, truth is safe.

A few waves of Puget Sound shove my stone throne
so hard I think it might move, topple me

into the icy sheen. The light would break
apart for only a moment, but not like the flicker

of failed electricity my home, sometimes
my brain, undergo. Looking at water

only makes you thirsty if you need
to be full to be free. I look out to that deep

dark and when I look back, I see the ocean
come to its knees on the shore and the shore

bow to the trees, which are timbering right back,
like they all have probably always done.

I stay until well after you can see the sun’s breath in their shadows,
catch mine and face the hill holding up my home.

 

Both Sides

For my day off, I’ll have surgery.
A transposition from old wounds into new ones.
What history’s all about. I know so much about
Poland’s war years, how my grandmother and her brothers

never fought with each other, what they had
to eat for every meal, even if it was burnt or
undercooked. I cannot name my daughter’s
favorite food.

The surgery. Where they incise both belly and back
to insert the rods to brace the spine, keep it
from slumping ever further, from crushing my lung.
(Have I not put it off long enough, like cleaning the fridge?)

There’s one sure way to kick a habit:
over and over again. But the war that was
exercise and stretching didn’t slow the stenosis,
the narrowing of the nerve trenches around my spine.

Those with the blades might tell you that love and judgment
are oil on water but, as we sit for our last dinner before the operation –
my daughter hates cabbage and steak and using a knife –
it seems like one is the face on the coin of the other.

 

 

Megan Wildhood is a freelance and creative writer in Seattle, WA. Her work, which centers social justice, marginalized voices, and hope for healing, has appeared, among other publications, in The Atlantic, The Sun, and America MagazineLong Division, her first book, was released by Finishing Line Press in September 2017 and she’s currently working on a novel. You can learn more at meganwildhood.com.

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