In My Bones

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In My Bones

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Death makes a brother and sister

of us all, shedding the crusty scales

of protection and vanity, it lifts

each heart bare toward the scorching

sun. And I feel so different now,

as though my wardrobe has been replaced

with someone else’s colours,

as though I have joined hands with the earth

in all her potent grief and glory.

I feel so well contained, though raw

as newborn babe. I feel this knowing

has made me whole, though it has removed

the ground I once stood on.

And here I see the space within will never go,

and the tears will be forever near. I see

the miracle of death, like the forming

of a caterpillar’s tight cocoon.

I see May flowers begin to bloom,

and know now, that life is not

so long a thing.

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Copyright © 2000 by Allison Grayhurst

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First published in “Black Mirror Magazine” April 2015

http://blackmirrormagazine.com/2015/04/04/allison-grayhurst/

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

https://allisongrayhurst.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/09/in-my-bones.m4a?_=1

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“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.

 

Effie

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Effie

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Picture at the bottom

tied up in a pit of moths.

The royal crown, life without

a wheel to ride. Paving up the stream

where children once charged down an incline

and jumped into its shallow body.

Instead I am weakened, unable to hold

my breath for more than ten seconds,

lungs, tender with each breath, wounded, flaccid,

but airways enflamed, engrossed with harsh swelling.

Will I die this way? Before my children are fully grown?

Will this be the place, alone, afraid, surrounded by love with

no love able to save me, repair my pulse, give current

enough to dismantle the throne of this disease?

I lay on a bed, under sheets. I know what is tomorrow.

I have no choice

but to let go. My children! My husband! My darling loves!

Winter has not yet come – here, but more like spring

crushing my chest, one breath, one breath, heavy liquid

rising in pockets meant for air – one breath, one breath.

The morning has arrived and death is edging nearer.

I see it waiting 

for me on my neighbour’s roof, patient, not as a predator,

but more like a sea at ebb tide, gathering moon gravity

and a natural motion of force that will eventually drown

whatever remains on the beachy shores, drowning

before winter – one breath.

My children are on their own as I am and I cannot stop

this freezing, save them from the cliffs

of mountain-burning grief,

prevent them from being orphans in other people’s homes,

holding eye contact briefly with other mothers who love

them, feel for them, but never the way I have loved them.

The world will wax me, carry me across

on the path of my heritage.

 

No one will be alright. Death is never healed,

it is a garment permanently glued, re-shaping the wearer,

taking the light through a black hole,

ending the peace of ignorance.

One breath. The sky has changed.

It is the last time I will bear it witness, from now on –

hospital ceilings, the insides of my eyes

and dreams of purgatorial pain

overcome, of dreaming my children old

with children of their own.

Don’t stop dancing, I tell them, don’t watch me. I am sorry.

I can barely breathe. Is God real?

I am holding many hands holding mine; whispers,

I love yous, goodbyes.

My last breath escapes me, easier now.

I hear singing, sobbing, singing louder.

I am listening, complete as a stone. My work is over.

My love is burning.

It is a sun. It is the shape of that song.

 

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Copyright © 2015 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Think Pink Issue 2” Pink.Ink.Girl. Press, May 2015

http://pinkgirlink.blogspot.ca/2015/05/allison-grayhurst-poetry.html

http://www.lulu.com/shop/various-author-compilation/think-pink-issue-2/ebook/product-22154515.html

think_pink___issue__2 download

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Click to access Make_the_Wind20160404Allison_Grayhurst.pdf

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

https://allisongrayhurst.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/effie.m4a?_=2

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“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,”  Eric M. Vogt, poet and author.

“Grayhurst is a great Canadian poet. All of Allison Grayhurst’s poetry is original, sometimes startling, and more often than not, powerful. Anyone who loves modern poetry that does not follow the common path will find Grayhurst complex, insightful, and as good a poet as anyone writing in the world today. Grayhurst’s poetry volumes are highly, highly recommended,” Tom Davis, poet, novelist and educator.
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Transfigured

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Transfigured

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Each day I wear my grief

like metal mesh. I see you

as a spirit burdened to speak.

You try to comfort this field

of wounds. You tend the amputees

and bound the screaming with soft song.

But it is hard for you to stay,

to not let go completely into the light.

I let you go. I make this year my bridge.

Though my heart has ruptured and cannot heal,

and I am forever overcome with this sadness

of our love silenced by brutal, unnamable death,

I will build a new house, dive with both hands

into my yard until the evergreens grow.

I will contain you as more than memory –

in my harvest will bloom many sunflowers

of your great generosity. And your fiery blood

will sprout the roots and flesh of passion fruit.

The maple tree will grow large like you, protecting all

within its strong and tender shadow. And children

will be drawn to this yard, to play there amongst

the tall dramatic grass, and then sit still to watch

with wonder the many shades of sky, reflecting

the warmth of your paternal sun-setting colours.

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Copyright © 2000 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Turk’s Head Review”, July 2014

http://turksheadreview.tumblr.com/post/92421950406/transfigured

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

https://allisongrayhurst.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/transfigured.m4a?_=3

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“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.

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