Even that word ‘even’ symbolizing balance and a certain level of equality, paired with ‘tide’ is an oxymoron, because what tide is even? What wave is equal and balanced? What water is level?
I haven’t been feeling the best lately, and I think that’s pretty obvious. Now, maybe it’s a good cry, maybe it’s tiring myself out outside, maybe it’s a feeling of giving up and moving on, or maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s the fact that I really don’t want to feel like this anymore, that’s making me put up something worthwhile on here. Maybe it’s my mother’s really tasty lasagna. Maybe I am not meant to be unravelled.
So here is eventide – I wrote it last year and it’s still one of my favourites.
When the sky stains red from the perspiration of a hot day
and the sun slowly dies out, catches the corner of dewdrops
on a cloud,
the moon becomes transparent
with a rapid and obvious symphony of lack
that you can’t believe you haven’t seen before.
Everything becomes a stamp, dim and pale,
those in alliance with the underside of day and the
highlight of night: the smudged division between
being cut out and outlined with words.
This is the time when the leaves slowly furl closed, the flowers descend
into their deep cocoons, quietly, like the whisper
of movement would endanger their livelihoods;
because between the cracks of day and night is a simpler word,
evening, which lays softly on the page of your tongue, without using up any
extra space, or breathing too loudly,
so the baby doesn’t stir;
like background conversation in a movie, mouths moving feverishly
to get nowhere at all;
“evening” just takes it easy,
so you can slide past non-occurrences and
occurrences alike with a nonchalance belonging to
This moment fuses sound, vision and taste like they were never meant to be
isolated islands, sinking slowly into our array of
meaningless advertisements, seeking us out even
on the radio
in the desert
while we think of everything but Coca-Cola:
Every heron we’ve ever seen stretch its wings, rivaling horizon,
the uneven smirk on your lover’s lips as they de-drowse from rest,
the rustle of pages in a bibliotheque, that seems almost nonexistent
in the enduring rhythm of molasses slow hearts and
sips of water:
They sink into the deep, while we veil ourselves from static,
hoping to amalgamate ourselves into
this moment between the
dawn and dusk.
So there, I still have some writing in me. I still have lots to give you. I’m not fully cocooned in my head to the degree that I can’t function in the real world. And I need to stop thinking that I am. Because me giving up in my head is what is making this so freaking hard for me. My head, my brain, my heart – they are all I have. And they are what I need. So I need to do a better job at protecting them. Just like after break ups, just like after fights with my dad, just like after I read something totally life-changing, I need to keep a cool level of level-headedness, while still rolling with the big guys.
Eventide is a perfect poem to put up.
And James Joyce is totes going to feel my wrath today, guys. FREAKING portrait of a young man is going to wish it’s never been read and deciphered by me. FOR REALS.