Saturday, 6 August 2011

The Teller

I hang myself with a string of red liquorice. It tastes nice. A real pleasure. Like my red finger nail which I chew. And scrape along the bath. The words from that book. The one I won’t leave. I take it to the church. Where they show their patchwork and quilts. Big ladies who won’t disintegrate into candy splinters or threads of red words. I see no rings of sticky sweets hanging around their necks. Maybe they wash it off. Cover it with busy hands and prayer-filled hearts. Like the Queen, full of tarts. Busy playing. I am not a player. I am a teller. Forged out of stitches and glue. They gave me back breath. To keep talking. But they left me with nothing else. I shout with the red pen and the red tin but the breath I was given is not to be spilled in the church. It is not to be heard in this story. I am the teller. I have breath but no voice. I lost my voice when the red liquorice turned to wire. I lost my voice when I told you; ‘I cannot make myself worth being murdered.’

(Beautiful, borrowed words from Camilla Gibb – ‘Mouthing the Words’)
Posted by at
Labels:

24 comments:

  1. Rex Venom6 August 2011 at 15:38

    Awesome!

    More!

    Rock on!

    ReplyDelete
  2. Daydreamertoo6 August 2011 at 17:04

    Stunning! I wouldn't enjoy wearing a sticky red liquorice necklace, at all no matter how good it tasted!
    As usual, powerful imagery. The end is... *gulps*

    ReplyDelete
  3. Old Egg6 August 2011 at 19:02

    I like to imagine you nibbling on the red liquorice as you wrote this. Your inspiration must come from some very strange places. The hurt your character feels is palpable. Their lack of self worth is terrible to contemplate. "I may be lying in the gutter but I'm staring at the stars" has been quoted in various forms. It is a favorite of mine.

    One of your best pieces Jae.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Anonymous6 August 2011 at 22:32

    "The breath I was given is not to be spilled in church." Hell, she can come to our church and spill the communion juice and she wouldn't be judged!

    Jae, another haunting post from you. SO MUCH RED. Licorice is sweet, but the red nails, wow. And those church ladies? Screw 'em!

    Amy who is pretty lousy at the "pastor's wife" gig sometimes, LOL
    http://sharplittlepencil.wordpress.com/2011/08/06/the-tree-in-my-soul-for-nimue-and-leif/

    ReplyDelete
  5. Jae Rose7 August 2011 at 02:23

    Thank you Rex..(rocking moniker!)

    Thank you Daydreamer..maybe we can share a bag of liquorice all- sorts..

    Thank you OldEgg..yes, you can only see the stars when you are scrabbling around in the dust..no, wasn't nibbling on liquorice whilst typing..had a cup of tea though..

    Thanks Amy..like the idea of spilling communion juice with you (no wine then)..ah, they're not bad ladies..just 'proper' ones..

    Jae

    ReplyDelete
  6. Altonian7 August 2011 at 04:48

    You speak the truth Jae, you are a teller, and the tales you tell are astonishingly heart-wrenching. The words you form make beautiful phrases - I am still hoping for them to tell a happier tale.

    ReplyDelete
  7. Jae Rose7 August 2011 at 06:38

    Thanks Altonian..for the comment and the thoughts..Jae

    ReplyDelete
  8. LeiffyV7 August 2011 at 06:44

    Now the red phase comes in. The warmth, the lower frequency, the softer sounds muted by those things that are like them. Anger, hatred, raw emotion. These things resonate very well along with this piece. Everything sort of ties in together.

    Hanging yourself with red liquorice though, that could be interesting. Another great piece (even if it might be borrowed), thanks for sharing with us Jae!

    ReplyDelete
  9. Jae Rose7 August 2011 at 06:51

    Thank you Leiffy..when I red I saw the rust and ichor in your piece I thought a-ha- someone else gets red too..a little flag waving on the shore..a noose of liquorice..bit like the jelly cement from several pieces back..Jae

    ReplyDelete
  10. Linda Jacobs7 August 2011 at 07:06

    Pain and pleasure wrapped up in red! Such symbolism here! Your poems always pack such a wallop!

    ReplyDelete
  11. Roan7 August 2011 at 08:13

    I really like that first line. All the red make your words more vivid. I wish I had your talent.

    ReplyDelete
  12. annell47 August 2011 at 08:34

    I wasn't sure... so when that happens I usually read the poem backwards. For some reason it helps me to understand.

    So here goes... I lost my voice when I told you: "I cannot make myself worth being murdered." This is true, you cannot make it so. It just is. "Too precious to be murdered."

    I lost my voice when it turned to wire. ???

    It is not to be heard in the story. (At this point I do not know what "this" is.)

    I shout with the red pen and the red tin but the breath I was given is not to be spilled in the church. Hummmmm..... is the breath, the words you speak? Is the church the "proper place?" The "red pen" of life, and the "red tin" your heart? Tapping on the "red" (alive) "tin" the sound of your own beating heart?

    They gave me back breath. Again I think of your words as breath, for them come from the exhale and the inhale. Something we all share, until we don't.

    Forged out of stitches and glue. Beautiful, one might think "sewing" or an art project?

    I a a teller. A story teller? A truth seeker?

    I am not a player. Only the truth for you. You don't make up things, "just the facts."

    Busy playing. Everyone is playing around you? Or is it poker?

    Like the Queen, full of tarts. hummmm.... the Queen, could this be Mother? Perhaps just seems full of sweetness?

    Cover it with busy hands and prayer-filled hearts. What is to be covered? Is it the heart? The mind? Or all that I see before me?

    Maybe they wash it off? Maybe they don't? It is there, but you don't see it?

    I see no rings of sticky sweets hanging around their necks. No sticky sweet nooses? Or is this sweetness just a false badge they wear?

    Big ladies who won't disintegrate into candy splinters or threads of red words. Something seems false here, is it those ladies?

    Where they show their patchwork and quilts. They are showing off what they have forged together? What they have created?

    I take it to the church. The authority?

    The one I won't leave. Something precious?

    The words from that book. Words are precious?

    And scrape along the bath. Wash away what is "dirty" or bad in the bath?

    Like my red finger nail which I chew. hummmm....nervous?

    A real pleasure. Again something precious?

    It tastes nice. Seems straightforward here?

    I hang myself with a string of red liquorice. What you love is killing you?

    I don't know if I got any of your mystery "right" but there you have it.
    Another write filled with mystery!

    ReplyDelete
  13. The Poet7 August 2011 at 09:31

    WoW! There's something almost haunting about these words and the intrigue at the end.

    Great stuff!

    ReplyDelete
  14. Jae Rose7 August 2011 at 10:15

    Thank you Linda..I am walloped..if not a wallop-er!

    Thank you Roan..I wish I could go to a Dairy Queen...

    My goodness Annell..you throw a whole new light..I see what you mean by un-peeling the red nail polish backwards..it's an analyst's dream - or nightmare..in a nutshell though..the last statement is true..thank you..

    Thanks Andy..

    Jae

    ReplyDelete
  15. Unknown7 August 2011 at 10:18

    You are brilliant in your ability to make us ponder and question, Jae. I think you allude to a few truths...

    1- Some were never part of the game, never allowed to be players, never learned how.

    2- Those sweet pleasures ~ lovely distractions ~ satisfying escapes can, over time be the end of us ~ or totally diminish and sideline us. Then, if we want to enter the game, we lack the skills to do so.

    3- Sometimes, the truth we need to speak, the stories we need to tell, are not the tales that others want to hear. Sometimes we cannot say what they want to hear. Just can't.

    Am I even close? LOL!

    ReplyDelete
  16. Jae Rose7 August 2011 at 10:21

    Yes, Kim I think you are - but as with Annell's comment I didn't know until someone (both of you special) read and saw past the red scribbles..Jae :)

    ReplyDelete
  17. Unknown7 August 2011 at 11:36

    You're precious, Jae. And rare.

    ReplyDelete
  18. Abigail Bunting7 August 2011 at 12:24

    'I am not a player. I am a teller. Forged out of stitches and glue. They gave me back breath. To keep talking. But they left me with nothing else.'
    A voice crying out in the wilderness- a prophet and truth-teller. Her voice is what gives her life meaning. Something drastic-the red licorice has robbed her of her voice, her essence.

    ReplyDelete
  19. Anna :o]8 August 2011 at 00:27

    Excellent stuff!

    Anna :o]

    ReplyDelete
  20. Jae Rose8 August 2011 at 04:08

    Yes, voice is an essence - thank you very much Abigail..

    Thank you Anna..

    Jae

    ReplyDelete
  21. glnroz8 August 2011 at 07:12

    red??,, hummm,, yes,red,,,

    ReplyDelete
  22. Anonymous8 August 2011 at 10:04

    i liked the red theme that runs through this.

    ReplyDelete
  23. Jae Rose9 August 2011 at 06:29

    It's good isn't Glenn..like your profile flower..

    Thanks Swapna..

    Jae

    ReplyDelete
  24. Mary29 August 2011 at 04:33

    Jae Rose, hope you will check Poets United today (Monday) and throughout the day!! YOU are there.

    ReplyDelete

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)