Behind the sycamore

Hey, so, tonight with the friends was good… I’m just itching to start painting again, but all the mess is kind of distracting me – oil paint is crazy hard to get off of everything (uh oh).   Does that make me a loner? I hope not.

Anyway, I was looking for some poetry to submit to York’s newspaper, because they’re having a creative writing supplement and I was like – yo, I do creative writing, and if I can’t do journalistic writing yet, I might as well try to get published what I CAN do so far. So as I was looking for the pieces, casually frantically perusing my Poesia folder for the right ones while forgetting about basically all the poetry I have thus far written, I found this kind of rough gem in the works.  It’s kind of sad, but sadness and Russians go well together, as long as there’s alcohol involved, so I figured, why not!  I definitely need to touch it up some when I have some clear mind space because there’s parts that are a bit confusing (now that I read over it again), but I’m going to stop making excuses and just give it to you straight.


She haunts the spaces behind my grandfather’s eyes
Caramelized, sucks his thoughts deep into
Nightmares, realizing that he can awaken.
Awake and nothing changes, dreams are just phases
Of horror stories while you’re not sleeping
But all he hears are sighs and machine beeping
Sounds like pleading
Sounds like the last bit of hope
Beep beep beeping away,
He saw his love pass away, leave like a soul wearing sheets
Of white, like their wedding day, August first 49 years ago
Almost golden, but circles can be broken when
Buried in land that hasn’t birthed anything except snowstorms.
The dirt stinks of betrayal, bureaucracy and 7 000 dollars
Of gilded death.

But I guess, it’s better than making you pay for the bullet,
Talk about causing your own crucifixion, these people are agents
Of fathers and uncles and brothers, that leave letters on desks that say
“Rape, then murder.  Then, make their families pay”
And some people just get to pass away, like my grandmother
But I don’t know if it feels any different, whether bullets or
Saline drip drip drips make your remorse any less
Because my father didn’t show any stress although it seems like he’s told me
More than a million times that he thinks his guardian angel just died,
So how do you wade through this?
It feels like quick turns of the head, the rush of hands to cover the
Quick descent of tears won’t represent this,
Won’t recompense this natural tragedy and yet

How do you get on with things when your husband
Awakens at 3, leaves his bed, follows freely his mind, lets it take him back
Into time and beyond reason, takes out his shovel,
Starts looking for his own grave because his sons found theirs in a corn silo,
An avalanche of carbon dioxide with nothing else left to breathe,
So they buried them underneath a sycamore tree,
And that’s where he goes, night after night to make sure
They’re still there, still alive

So I wonder, has he lost his mind?

Or does it start to make sense now, after insanity, after hearing their voice in your head
and feeling their hands on your back?  Do the ghosts behind my grandfather’s eyes call out to you, now?
Because all I want to do is answer them, and pick up a shovel.


Hope you enjoyed that, sombre as it was. 🙂  And I’ll let you know if my paper decides to publish any of my stuff! (If they do, I’ll post them on here, even!)

Ciao. Arina.


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