The Suicide Attempt of my Identity

A blank canvas given to me

we work together to write this note

At a place where all words seem

some part of the uncontrollable

The painting here is almost monochromatic.

There is not enough of me,

I cannot fight anymore

I see myself in you

The oil, churning within,

Trapped within a skull, like a sonic locust

My eyes are numb like sleep

Though in the depths of fever

it is time

Find it. You have your time.

Don't you forget, I am carrying you

like the last inch of candle’s wick

A passion burned too bright, too quick

Powerless, unprotected

They are all gone

I just want to live.

April is National Poetry Month!

Choose a poem from the April 2012 Issue of Poetry magazine, to discuss at our MCS2 Selective Celebration on Wednesday, April 25 from 1-3.

If you can't settle on one to discuss, consider any of the three (four?) works mentioned in this Study Guide.

If you're in an especially creative mood, feel free to write your own poem that deals with the concept of identity.  

For other ideas around National Poetry Month, please visit The Academy of American Poets website.  See you Wednesday!

Garden of Death

His gentle hands

place us all

into the warm, moisture

of this world.

Death is our sentinel,

He quietly waters us with age.

Some proudly defiant and fiery,

Others curly, seemingly confused,

One multi-limbed, one sheered,

A few radiant with colors

Only seen by his invisible eyes,

ungrowing buds

placed back into his pocket.

Our allotted space is enough,

But we struggle for more light, entitled.

Diversity brings dispute,

The patterns and colors of our petals

are simply too different,

And our humble beginning

as tiny, equally cherished seeds

is remembered only

when we are claimed and

Indiscriminately

Held to his gentle, awaiting bosom.

Consolation

What does one say to a man

Approaching eternity’s gate

In his plain, blue bombazine suit and

His knobbed joints and memories

At a place where all words seem

Like childish nursery rhymes

What a poor medium to express our emotion

Like trying to paint water on canvas

Though to fall so far surely must have meant

That at one point he could see the earth curve

Wigs

A blank canvas given to me

Smoothed out by the chemicals

That erased all that I had created

So here, I’ll start fresh—theres no time to waste

When I have three lives to live

In three months time…

Today I am her, a mother of three

I am wide-hipped and broad-shouldered

Strong, as my mother was

Vibrant red hair that turns almost brown

As I dip into the crystal ocean waters

I live on the beach and there is sand everywhere

My children dragging it in, along with rocks and shells

Each time they come into the house

My husband returns home with news of the day

He loves me and tells me so, as we watch the water roll onto the shore

Three little ones tucked into bed

And I have found my place in his arms

The curls of crimson falling playfully along the curves of my face

And as he brushes them away, he whispers something I cannot quite make out

But I smile and close my eyes…

Yesterday I was her, a frail-looking thing

With wide blue eyes and a mean little smile

I know how I looked, and I did not mind

Luscious dark hair that was richer than chocolate

And the best set of breasts even I’ve ever seen

I walked with a conceited strut

Because I knew you were looking.

There is a world that is wild and vast

And I was hungry to see it all

Hungry, and scared because one day I’d be old

When my body would no longer carry me,

I would be stuck here—

And the thought of it made me shudder

So I grabbed fistfuls of my ink black locks

And I screamed and I screamed and I screamed…

Tomorrow I will be her,

Sitting at the park feeding pigeons on her break

Cropped blonde hair, not a strand out of place

Wearing the finest suits made from old Italian men

She will work many hours in a very tall building

But find she is happiest when

She feeds those damn birds during her break

And she spies him again, doing the same

Two benches away they sit, 1:15 on the dot

Once he will look over, and once she will smile back

And she will envy the birds that walk so bravely up to him

For a quarter hour they will sit in silence

And she will be satisfied

That he came to see her—or so she will hope

And with the last crumbs sprinkled to the concrete below

Curling her honey hair behind her ears

She will whisper goodbye and wish he would do the same…

A blank canvas, blank once more

I suppose this is a fourth life I’ve lived

The one with a husband

And a child

And a woman with a barren head

Who fought her best.

Hoping To Bring Her Life Together...It's Not Hard, It Just Takes Time

"HOLLIS SIGLER: WORKS FROM THE “BREAST CANCER JOURNAL” SERIES" 

Hoping To Bring Her Life Together...It's Not Hard, It Just Takes Time, 1996

color litho with chine colle, 21" x 29"

A coffin awaits impatiently
underneath an icy glare
yearning,
demanding for the cold heap that once was you.

It only takes time
so brace yourself for the fall.

Warm touch of flesh
that flushes your face,
decadent mouth-watering feasts
filling you with content,
the Sunday morning sonata.

Please.
No room for joy in this room.

Here, tiles are below freezing
stiff wood and rusty nails scream
shards that once were…
something

If time is all it takes,
let us lock it in here.
Not a crack to escape.

Find it. You have your time.

10…9… 8, 7,
6--
it’s probably not worth it.

it is time

                                               Self-Portrait: Between the Clock and the Bed by Edvard Munch

it is time

his bed is neatly made

his walls hang heavy with images

the healthy outline of a faceless youth

the practiced smile of a portrait, arms carefully casually placed

walls filled with what he cannot take with him

his door is open but it is too dark to know what lies beyond

beside him is a clock with no hands

he does not know what time it is, yet

he is ready and

it is time

Morphine (Little Winter Flower)

We gather around your bed

As you lie there

Like we have for weeks,

Like you have for years

Watching you

Lie Lifelessly,

But still Alive

Simple sounds

I know what you mean

I know you want to go

I know why

Another Bolus gets you one step closer

To Peace,

To a World Free of Pain,

Free of this Torture,

Free-

But Free of Me

I hold your hand

As you take your last breathe.

I feel you squeeze tight

As you clench and grimace.

I sense your Life for one last time.

It doesn’t seem real

As I sit there,

Wishing for those weeks,

Those years,

Your voice,

Your touch,

Your sweet embrace

A little red flower buds and opens

In the dead of Winter

And reminds me

That you’re Free

He No Longer can at the age of 98

He No Longer Can at the age of 98 - Francisco Goya

Old Man, you want to move but you can't. You want to live, but your life is almost over.You want to be happy, but how can you? Strange to think that you were once my age. You were once a newborn, a teenager, a worker. Now you're just an Old Man. I'm sorry I keep calling you Old Man, I don't mean to be degrading. I know your wrinkles don't define who you are. But what does? What does it matter what you were, if you're not anymore? The only thing that remains is in your head - your memories.Why does that even matter if they'll be gone once you're gone and your children's children are gone. Your life is meaningful. Only to you. One day you'll be gone. And in not too long, evidence of your existence will be gone too.

I see myself in you. I look at old photographs of myself and imagine how I would've never imagined to be where I am. Maybe you do the same thing. I look at your face. It's hard to see who you were. I don't know why I say were. I'm sorry. I don't mean to remind you of what you're not anymore.You are what you are when you are.

Your friends are deceased, your family is with their family. The only unconditional companion is your shadow. He will always be there for you, but he'll also remind you that it's the only shadow you see. I'm sorry everyone has left. I really am. I am mostly sorry because I see myself in you. This will be me at your experienced age. (Did you notice how I didn't say old age?) This will be me if I get to experience as much as you did. You are fortunate. You know how much life has to offer, more than anyone I know. Do you feel lucky for that? Or does knowing the experiences you have experienced and can experience if you are able to experience them make it harder for you to experience life right now? Apparently, life is about the experience. I don't think I've realized this yet. I will one day. I'm just afraid it'll be too late.

No puede ya con los 98 años. You no longer can with the 98 years. Your years are heavy. I can tell by the way you hunch over. They push you closer and closer to where your bones will remain. Getting closer and closer to your roots. You feel like a newborn. Dependent. You always talk about how handsome you used to be. But I can't tell from your face. Much like your mother couldn't tell how handsome you were to become the day you were born.

Your life seems dismal to me. I can't help to see you in black and white, much like a newspaper. Perhaps you see the world in color. Your legs are useless, you say. That won't stop you, but you have stopped. Everything behind you looks white, perhaps you are on your way to nothingness. Are you moving closer to it, or leaving it? I see you're wearing a cloak. Are you getting ready for the Grim Reaper? Not quite, you say, though my body is dead, my mind still remains.

The Triumph of Death

The Triumph of Death - Bruegel the Elder, Pieter

      This is the triumph of death. But not the way in which an old man succumbs to his end. No, that is not even a triumph really, but rather an acceptance of death. This is not what is happening here. The Triumph of Death shows the consequence of man, where for the ideals of one or many,  millions have plunged their lives to an untimely end. And the some do not win here, nor do the soldiers that stand at the end of the battle. Death wins, for death did not have to give time or wait for these claims, they were given to him. Life was taken, and death was not accepted, but given.

      The painting here is almost monochromatic. Though there is red, orange, and yellow, they all bring to mind one thing: hellfire, a burning landscape with a sky blackened by smoke, and salvation standing alone, almost helpless amongst the fiery chaos. The holy cross stands surrounded by skeletons, as even it has succumbed to the oppressive concentration of death. There is a pile of bodies, from all social classes and ranks, all falling to the ugliness of death, irrespective of their worldly status. War then I take it, is a manifestation of hell on Earth.

      Suffice to say, this image does not give me a great feeling. It brings to light a machination of man that has persisted since the very beginning, war. It is, and always will be, one of death’s greatest triumphs; it did not fail him in the past, it has not today, and it will not tomorrow. The juxtaposition of the holy cross amongst such death, send almost a mockery to the notion of salvation. It stands there, its presence in the battlefield, an empty symbol of deliverance.

      We were not meant to go this way, though I can’t really say that. No one wishes to go this way rather. We all want to accept death, it is the only way we can have him. A triumph of it is an evil, a life cut too short, and an unfair end that no one can accept. 

the story of the story of your skin

this is a story of the story of your skin

this is how it stretched and ripped

and colored pink and peeled and

how a scrape came and went but

some were too unforgiving unforgettable

 

that time the thieves in ho chi minh

that you bravely chased down and

won back what was taken from you

though not without the price of a scar

this is actually what happened

 

or the story of the thieves in ho chi minh

that you bravely chased down but

you wound up on the ground in some

alleyway, bloodied and broken

this is also not a lie

 

the truth is that the skin will be evidence

to either story- and each may be equally true

for the skin will only recount its pain

it does not care how it was received

 

there may be times people attempt to

persuade their skin to tell a specific story

with ink and color and letters- though

regardless of the pattern, that story is

always the same an attempt to control

 

some part of the uncontrollable

goddamnit

Copyright(c) 2006 USMLE WORLD, Please do not save, print, cut, copy or paste anything while USMLE WORLD is running. Thanks!!

My Darling

You are irresistible,

my Darling

Like a ripened fruit

Dangling from a high-set branch

Taunting me to pluck you

From the delicate stem from which you hang

Or maybe you are the tree itself

Broad trunked and massive

You are unmoving

Casting dark shades upon me

Calloused, as I obsess over you

You are a soldier,

my Darling

For standing your ground

Against an opponent much stronger,

Resolute in staying where you are

Despite my incessant pull

That is you

The mark of a cold winter

Long nights uncared for, unloved

Those nights have made you tough, I know

But I will not be beat by you

Triumphant! I stand, holding you between my fingertips

But the ache of longing subsides

A passion burned too bright, too quick

Has now completely vanished

Isn't that how it always goes?

I have already forgotten all that you are.

You are nothing,

my Darling

But a hangnail.

Ostomy

This hole in my abdomen
Is a hole in my soul

It lets out gas
And feces
Filling this bag
With my Pride,
My Independence,
My Humanity

They are all gone

I am no more beautiful
Than this stoma
Than this raw, pink bowel
Than this disgusting brown bag

It needed to be done
So I could live
But I don't feel alive

“Tympanic, tym to panic” – Marjan Islam

My tympanic membrane,

Burst on an airplane,

As we descended into madness

The pressure building in my sinus

Dr. Dre Beats™ headphones,

Echoing jams and timbre tones,

But now, failing to equalize

The air to my ears, failing to normalize

Failing to neutralize, the pain like electricity

A blocked passage, the air in unforeseen intensity

Clouding all sound and all focus,

Trapped within a skull, like a sonic locust

And then madness was reached, yet madness dissolved

The plane came to a halt, the pain absolved

Now a confused medical student, but with a differential at hand

A differential so astute, with the Stony Brook brand

Transient trigeminal neuralgia …m-maybe?

9-1-1

Please note that this poem is in the form of a telephone conversation.

The normal font is the 9-1-1 Operator and the Italicized font is the 9-1-1 Caller.

9-1-1

Hello,

9-1-1

What is your emergency?

Please,

Help me

I’m so scared

What is your location ma’am?

I don’t know

This room-

It’s so bright,

So cold

Where are my clothes?

Are you hurt?

There’s so many knives

So many machines and tubes

They are going to torture me!

They are going to kill me!

They?

Are there multiple assailants?

5 of them,

All dressed in blue

They look like aliens

Is there anyone else with you?

No.

I’m all alone,

I’m so scared!

Did they break into your house?

No.

My family brought me here,

They said it would help

They left me here,

With these maniacs

Ok ma’am

Are the assailants in the room now?

Can you hide?

No.

I’m all alone,

I can’t move

I think they drugged me

I’m so scared!

Ok ma’am

Police are on the-

Please!

Help!

They are coming back!

He has a needle!

No!

Don’t!

[Dial tone]…

a or b

"how are you today?"
"f(eye)n"

He scoped my lens as a microbe behind a diaphragm, the pupillary constrictor striving
I saw the light as my brain fights to see
What is this man doing? It's too bright.

One eye is closed now.
The pulleys of ciliary muscle begin to turn.
"tell me which is clearer. a or b"
"a"
"c or d"
"c"
My brain wrestles the eye like a boat in the tide
to focus to strain to row in vain

"these are my special eye drops"
My eyes are numb like sleep
I want to wake to see
Next a dull poke. The dilating solution.
Instead of waking I sleep, sleep, sleep.
It's blurry.
I've drunk.
I cannot focus or feel and feint nor flee.
I thought this doctor was meant to help me see.

Brodmann's areas

The shadow of my grandfather, the great inventor,

heavily occupies this hospital bed.

His faculties stripped, his brain naked,

slowly turning out only empty pockets

of areas removed.

Brodmann’s areas 8, 17, and 42

Once keen and discerning,

his crumbling eyes are fixed on the air in front of him,

as he attempts to catch

the words that volley from person to person.

How long has it been since 2^nd person became 3^rd for you?

Brodmann’s areas 4 and 6

You are a vibrating statue

your paralyzed arm hangs upward,

an early attempt to transcend,

And your legs have atrophied

From being wheel chaired into a church

where being on your feet was the only way you’d worship.

Brodmann’s areas 22, 44, and 45

Your gregarious voice now only resonates in

The things that are good for me,

the things that are not.

It affectionately rests in a story

measuring the great distance you walked to school,

how you studied harder than anyone,

only to come in a distant second place

to my grandmother.

Brodmann’s areas 39 and 40

You used to sit me on your strong knee,

share news articles and spoil me with fantastic stories

before I knew I knew any words.

And you once told my mom

That if you got too old

to let you live in a library and you’d be happy

devouring scores of literature,

where you wouldn’t burden anyone.

My dad holds up a three-letter word next to your bed

And we hope today is the day you nod,

“progress.”

Brodmann’s areas

And all the learned medical science,

with its difficult words and intricate pathways,

are not enough to understand

your change, my loss

And I miss the you

That is the you

That could make dinosaur costumes with me.

I know your brain is gone,

But it shaped a world

Where I am compelled

to reason, to express,

to imagine, to create,

to accept,

And it will always live

In the moments

That I am unafraid.