Kill Your Darlings

Watch the poetry film for this poem soon!

Listen to the complete track here:
https://soundcloud.com/lindacleary/kill-your-darlings



He is running after a pigeon, his parasol fluttering behind him, his little legs unsteady yet wilful to the quest, towards the bird. The fountain is arching its waters to the sky and the river is lulling afternoon dreams. He is 5 years old and full of wonder.

I wish I'd had a grandmother who had told me stories of old and taught me how to love, but my grandmother was crazy, drunk and broken from too much pain.

Hush, little baby, don't say a word.
Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird

The bird moves ahead of him, hopping, twitching its petrol coloured head side to side. He runs little steps, nearly trips, tries to clap but the parasol falls and as it sweeps down cutting across the sun the bird flaps its wings upwards and is gone.

I wish I'd had a mother who had took me in her arms and taught me how to love, but my mother was angry, hardened and broken from too much pain.

And if that mockingbird won't sing,
Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring

He wanted me to meet him but I couldn't, I was too tired of it all, of the fire and the dying of the fire, and my body showed its sadness. I was standing near the fountain in Trafalgar Square, those great shots of water surging to my heart, those lions mute roar somehow still able to stir my passion but ever so slightly. It was fairly cold, but actually I cannot remember anything of the temperature, for I was consumed and yet absent. Let it go, I thought.

I'm meeting someone, I'm meeting my lover from many years ago, I'm meeting myself as I am now, the furious sound of the train. And I met you.

Strange, Time. And Love. Or what, was it something other? Something other than Love? I had held myself back, or not even had to, I just didn't feel anything significant. In fact it felt like a chore to go, a command I was following from the one who used to be my Master and now was weak in my mind. For others had replaced the pain so many times, I could no longer find my addiction to him. It was no longer itching below my skin. But yet, I went, and gradually over those hours I warmed and became coquettish once more, knew his desire and liked it, and I let him place those passionate caresses and kisses all over my body. He awoke me. But having awoken me, he disappeared. Again.

The bedside book. Hard silk. Hot ice cream. Memories of him.

Intimacy does not mean anything.

The excitement (rapture) of hide and seek

Circles of time, yet still the same place. The place is there, the place, the place is I wish I'd had a father who had sat me on his knee and taught me how to love, but my father was in another country, silent and broken from too much pain.

And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Papa's gonna buy you a looking glass

The family tree, roots that I have escaped from, branches that cannot hold me, and I - always I - having to search alone for the water to keep giving me Life.

The roots are the hands of my ancestors; rough with hard work, stretched with yearning, empty of children, clutching suitcases, wiping silent tears, burying the dead.

This tree is one I cannot climb, its arms will not hold me, it has no fruit. It offers no shade nor food.

Instead there is an empty space. Could be a cut out of my father, could be a cut out of my lovers, could be a cut out of my hopes.

And if that looking glass gets broke,
Papa's gonna buy you a billy goat

18 years I waited from child to woman, waited for one letter to come.

I stared at the words, going over his lines in that one letter – the thoughts becoming engrained facts; heavy with ink

And on I waited, although I heard many words and was seduced by many with their eyes full of my light, and their words and poetry flooding my heart, yet like Psyche who at the moment of trust looks upon her lover so then they would leave. And my star heart would die again.

And if that billy goat won't pull,
Papa's gonna buy you a cart and bull

I see them between my legs, each one in that same place, it is like a madness, a psychotic audition, each one with his own style, some blend into one, some stand out.  Dangerous angels.

One day you realise you don't know the exact date anymore; the date it began or ended. That date which before marched in front of your head and gripped your heart tight - is lost. Just as the memories of touch are gone. Though I can remember your smile and your eyes. Thoughts of what happened come in flashes, sometimes after months of respite – only yesterday I tried to remember the last time you left the house, the final closing of the door - and I couldn't hear a sound. I closed my eyes to hear it; that angry shutting, that end; but the sound wasn't there. And then I remembered that it hadn't happened that way, with you. With you it was through the telephone only and you said you wouldn't come again, that there was nothing you needed to explain. For your heart had nothing to forget.

And if that cart and bull turn over,
Papa's gonna buy you a dog named Rover

Now those men like ghosts, I watch their faces; perhaps I am the ghost and what an advantage, those ravaged faces, time held upon them, magic and flirtations no longer available in their eyes – only age and the catching up of the body that has eaten them.

And behind their ghosts are the priestesses of Babylon in the temples of healing and the fish head priests, is the lapidarium, the stones standing as a providence within the realm of creation, epigraphs testify to the great importances now replaced, the musty odor of the fall of the Romans, the air of lovers now all gone, nations and empires now columns and fragments, the gates to historic cities dissembled to tombstones for their song, is the torn down theatre, citing fire hazard, some of the beauty remains but much has become defaced, ugly, built over, now one has to find charm in concrete. Some dirty charm. Like a stolen fuck behind an abandoned building.

And if that dog named Rover won't bark
Papa's gonna buy you a horse and cart

Yet for him the tree was emanating light. It quivered and moved, an archaic divine bird, a super conscious being; sparkling, remembering, opening, responding, speaking, awakening. Bright, white light. So much so, that it hurt his eyes. He was looking for a way out of there, for a more comfortable place within that forest for them both to lie down. Perhaps there was a hut or covered area, for they were cold. He was stumbling in the dark, trying to give out that he had a plan, that everything was alright, that he could protect her – keep her warm – that it was just the night and nothing more, just some dark hours to wait through. And then as he trod slowly over the dead bracken and tried in vain to find a resting place there suddenly was the tree – somehow lit – alive with light.

And if that horse and cart fall down,
You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town.

Do you remember when we experienced the tide turn, that very moment, that magical flip of the water's pull as it started to recede – just as we had begun to be oceaned yet still danced with our veils to our mistress' song. It was you and I and the great blue sea, it was you and I and an alchemical spell that formed a priestesses' alliance in our hearts. Do you remember when we felt that joy, sister, of embracing the path of the heart.

Memory, is like another land with no bridge. Only water that is too strong and too wide to traverse.

The absence of everything kills me.