Keep it. Always.
Well built, like literature.
This birthplace and then, into
the weighted wind. I am scarcely
bearing it, palpitating, counting
palpitations, high on this kundalini drug. Today,
I will say nothing, be elusive as a shy-man’s smile.
I can’t stand the crumbs. Eating for nourishment only,
one grape, this fabric – covering, menial, not warm.
I can’t plant daffodils in January. You know
everything I gave you was purely accident,
not meant for you to treasure. How else can I be beautiful?
How else can this legend not be broken, but be a masterpiece
in your eyes? My tree. My front crawl. I need to lead,
callous with my intentions. Because there is more at stake
than the digging up of remnants, more than
you and me and this mortuary of foiled ambitions.
On the couch. In the bedroom. Armpits, ripe and enticing.
You built a city. I entered. But this is my ecstasy. There is
something growing. I need release, space to expand my fleshy
torment. Damn you. Gleaming like a little sun, gorgeous
and calm, edging out so many possibilities.
Damn you. I want to descend from this height, leave
these messy corridors, not needing you, not needing
your fire opal tongue skimming my skin,
pointed deep into my chasms. You are barricaded
in convention, denying everything we are supposed to die for,
everything, you promised, we would,
Copyright © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Misfits Miscellany”, March 2012
You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
“Allison Grayhurst intertwines a potent spirituality throughout her work so that each poem is not simply a statement or observation, but a revelation that demands the reader’s personal involvement. Grayhurst’s poetic genius is profound and evident. Her voice is uniquely authentic, undeniable in its dignified vulnerability as it is in its significance,” Kyp Harness, singer/songwriter, author.
“Allison Grayhurst’s poems are like cathedrals witnessing and articulating in unflinching graphic detail the gritty angst and grief of life, while taking it to rare clarity, calm and comfort. Grayhurst’s work is haunting, majestic and cleansing, often leaving one breathless in the wake of its intelligence, hope, faith and love amidst the muck of life. Many of Allison Grayhurst’s poems are simply masterpieces. Grayhurst’s poetry is a lighthouse of intelligent honour… indeed, intelligence rips through her work like white water,” Taylor Jane Green, Registered Spiritual Psychotherapist and author.
Book reviews of the River is Blind paperback:
“Throughout (The River is Blind), she (Allison Grayhurst) employs
reiterated tropes of swallowing and being consumed, spatial fullness
and emptiness, shut- in, caverns, chasms, cavities; angels, archangels,
blasphemy, psalms; satiation or starved. With a conceit of unrequited sex
as “my desire”, nocturnal emissions, awakening in the morning, the poet lives
at capacity, uninhibited, dancing,” Anne Burke, poet, regional representative
for Alberta on the League of Canadian Poets’ Council, and chair of
the Feminist Caucus.
“Allison’s poetic prose is insightful, enwrapping, illuminating and brutally truthful. It probes the nature of the human spirit, relationships, spirituality and God. It is sung as the clearest song is sung within a cathedral by choir. It is whispered as faintly as a heartbroken goodbye. It is alive with the life of a thousand birds in flight within the first glint of morning sun. It is as solemn as the sad-sung ballad of a noble death. Read at your peril. You will never look at this world in quite the same way again. Your eye will instinctively search the sky for eagles and scan the dark earth for the slightest movement of smallest ant, your heart will reach for tall mountains, bathe in the most intimate of passions and in the grain and grit of our earth. Such is Allison Grayhurst. Such is her poetry. THE RIVER IS BLIND is a must-read,” Eric M. Vogt, poet and author.