You are wrong

Posted on by Allison Grayhurst

 

You are wrong

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You are wrong as the emptiness

that fills the space after rejection –

monotonous and monotone, a faker in the flesh.

Once taking up a whole continent in mind,

you were the designated bearer of sunlight.

I cared for your wrists, your pulse, the offspring

of your brilliance. I stood beside you, always a little lower,

maybe sterile, never enough. It was that voice that weighed

inside of me holding a gravity of its own, glorifying

even the cold intake of breath after words, your words

that meant more to me than memory, that wore into me like

acid painted on my skin, scorching, welcoming because

they were harsh and indisputable. But now

I exile you from my soul.

Your spring cleaning is death to my desire.

You are wrong and flat and you

don’t smell the same. You exist, but only as a chair does

or a house full of boring furniture. You have two

feet, still standing, but I imagine nothing hidden in your eyes –

what I see is beyond my attachment, easy now

to walk away from.

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Copyright © 2014 by Allison Grayhurst

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First published in “VIMFIREmagazine”, October 2014

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Surrogate Dharma

Posted on by Allison Grayhurst

 

Surrogate Dharma

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I didn’t think I would get lost

or be chained to a contractual victory.

I thought a grain would grow,

become a solid garden. Fires would come, then

firefighters. I would be testifying about

the worth of what survived.

     That is not what happened. I fell prey

to the propaganda of affirmations,

to the volume of control I could contain.

My dream dropped out of me

like a miscarriage. I hoped I could forget:

Tie my shoes, zip up a coat

and kiss the shelter I have. Bridges here and there –

they are not mine to travel.

Vinegar keeps getting injected into my bones,

replacing the marrow with

its potent clarity. Do you see? I am getting older.

It will be over

and I have to be able to say I served well.

My mouth opens and folds like a fledgling wing.

People pass – each one a violin note, a digit, a reluctant

panting pitch. Conversations are ash.

I don’t like living in these elements, my neck

stretched up into the dense middle

of a monsoon. Let me climb,

dragging this dead beast behind me.

Let me live where my father went to school,

on a Himalayan peak.

I am not a petal. My courage is fickle, it fortifies or fades,

dependent each day on mutual obligatory infatuation.

     I can’t keep pretending:

The sun is strong. The night is strong. I am not stronger.

     I am in this hovel with my lamp, tasting metal

of varying textures –

rusted, gold, and other star-erupted symbols –

greeting obscurity, broken toenails

I can’t be bothered to trim. How many rooms, my God?

How much waiting and walking, and the fish?

I could be a fish. Make me

one of those – sliding about, weaving

with one full-body stroke

through a lush intricate terrain, mastering

a juicy undergrowth.

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Copyright © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst

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Surrogate Dharma chapbook 1

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Published in “Occulum” August 2017

Two Poems | by Allison Grayhurst

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First published in “SpinRock Reader Lit Forum” October 2015

SpinRock Reader Lit 1 SpinRock Reader Lit 2 SpinRock Reader Lit 3 SpinRock Reader Lit 4 SpinRock Reader Lit 5 SpinRock Reader Lit 6

http://spinrockreader.blogspot.ca/2015/10/surrogate-dharma-poem-by-allison.html

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First published in “Surrogate Dharma” e-chapbook Kind of a Hurricane Press

Surrogate Dharma chapbook 1

Surrogate Dharma chapbook 29Surrogate Dharma chapbook 2

 

http://barometricpressures.blogspot.ca/2014/10/surrogate-dharma-allison-grayhurst.html

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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A Great Wind Came Rushing

Posted on by Allison Grayhurst

 

A Great Wind Came Rushing

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A great wind came rushing

and I said to the wind

“Bitter wind, stop before you carry me off.”

A great wind came rushing

and pulled me into the sky,

I travelled past wheat-fields

sailed under its furious reign.

I was broken into many pieces,

hit what the wind could not pass through

half-crazed with resistance

I fell to the ground

into worm-holes and the open mouths of laughing children.

I sunk into soil and dreamt of sprouting.

And the wind said to me,

“Do not perish with fright in these strange places,

close your eyes and wait for spring.”

 

Spring came,

I cracked and grew flesh

then like a vine I crawled out of that dark ground

and found the sun

soothed by heat and rain

I praised the earth with untainted joy

And I said to the earth,

“Sweet earth, allow me to walk.”

 

Gradually my limbs found movement

lips formed, eyes appeared, blue and wide

and I ran from land to land

celebrating life with each step.

I wore no clothes, carried no yard stick

found equal peace, equal rapture

with every new encounter.

 

A great wind came rushing

and I said to the wind

“Powerful wind, come carry me off

for I am still young and can bear the storm.”

Weightless with excitement

I joined its intense ride

gathered at the centre

halfdead with stillness

I gave myself up

lost the beating of my pulse, lost momentum

sunk low into my depths, immune to singing

And the voice said to me

“Do not despair with sorrow in this vacant hollow,

open your eyes and wait for love.”

 

Love came,

I expanded and felt communion

Like a clam I crept out of my isolation

and shone my pearl

 

Like a clam I closed back my shell

and hid in the safety of darkness.

 

And I said to my love,

“I am as incapable of loving as much as

everyone else is.” And my lover said back to me,

“So am I.”

 

A great wind came rushing

And I said to the wind,

“Great wind, be still

It is time now to learn.”

 

The great wind ceased.

 

My love and I walk hand in hand

on an unknown mission, swept away,

carried by each other, alone.

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Copyright © 1989 by Allison Grayhurst

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Before the Dawn was published  in 1989 by The Plowman, written by Allison Grayhurst under the pseudonym of Jocelyn Kain.

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Published in “Medusa’s Kitchen” May 2018

http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.ca/2018/05/a-great-wind-came-rushing.html

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First published in “The Plowman: A Journal of International Poetry” 1989

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