Skip to main content

LIKE WATER by Jessica Harman


Heidegger said that we find ourselves in "thrownness."

 In other words, we are thrown into the world as we find it, and we piece ourselves and the world together from our surroundings.

This poem reflects a time in my life that was very happy yet also very painful, when I worked in an x-rated video store. I knew that some of the people came to the store for human contact, whatever a smile meant to them, and yes, I had real connections to some of them. I am able to dole out small dollops of random kindness for no reason at all.

Those were also my years in College studying creative writing, and I had a wonderful group of friends. We all had hard lives in Montreal, which is a rough town, according to Americans, but we had fun, and shared our knowledge and learned from one another.

Although my circle of friends are not in the poem per se, I still feel I was very vibrant and loving at the time because I was surrounded by the good energy of friendship.


Like Water

Like water in the trees when the voice
Of the wind is still as a holy ghost. Like believing
In me, I was once a downtrodden porno girl,
Giving little amounts of love with a real sparkle
In my eye, diamonds, the kind that say,

I cannot love
You, I am sorry, but I am forbidden to do anything such
As that, but if I could love you, I most certainly would,

Fellow crying wind-snap whiplash being
Tossed about like me on the waves
Of this wicked world.  The machine does this to us.

The machine is the opposite of the bird
That rises in the heart up the windpipe
And wants to sing. Sparrow-leaden light.

I am no lone crow, though some think so.
Like no snow-capped mountain, no leopard
In leotards with sunglasses and high heel sneakers.

I’m merely a dragon plum, a plume of white
Smoke writing like a feathered quill,
Calling the angels, calling and calling
And calling collect until one day they might
Accept the charges and talk to me,

In even, uncomplicated tones, in ways
That spill and sweeten my morning coffee.
It’s morning, now, and the sun is risen
Like an umbrella, and I don’t see any rain

In the foreseeable future, like just
The music of the masses coming
Together, saying to one another
With no hate, hello, shalom, bounjour,
Ruya, ruya, ruya, pax, capiche, comprende.
It will happen if we try,
Because we know we already have a great
Understanding of each other
When we pass each other, and, like the strangers
That we are, complete strangers,
We do not nod hello good day,
But pass each other,
Staring straight ahead,
Like we are listening to the sound
Under the silence of the flowing water.
~

Jessica Harman is a writer living in Boston. She studied Creative Writing at Concordia University in Montreal, her hometown. She earned an M.A. in Health Communication specializing in medical research methods at Emerson College in 2003. She has worked as a video store clerk, art store girl, medical researcher, and creative writing teacher. Her first full-length poetry collection, "Dream Catcher," available here, was published in 2012 by Aldrich Press in California. You may find her on her poetry blog here or facebook here. 


~If you are interested in seeing your poetry appear in this blog, or submitting a poem by a woman that has inspired you, please click here for submission guidelines. I greatly look forward to hearing from you!~  

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

IMAGINE A WOMAN by Patricia Lynn Reilly

  This poem invites you to look upon yourself with loving kindness… Gazing at your own true reflection, you will discover that everything you have longed for “out there” is already within you! I invite you to love your creativity fiercely. Faithfully plant seeds, allowing under-the-ground dormant seasons, nurturing your creative garden with love and gratitude. In the fullness of time, the green growing things thrust forth from the ground. It's a faithful, trustworthy process. AND it takes time and patience.  Blessed is the fruit of your creative womb! I invite you to trust your vision of the world and express it. With wonder and delight, paint a picture, create a dance, write a book, and make up a song. To give expression to your creative impulses is as natural as your breathing. Create in your own language, imagery, and movement. Follow no script. Do not be limited by the customary way things have been expressed. Your creative intuition is original. Gather

IMBOLC by Caroline Mellor

The inspiration for this poem came after I watched a magical winter sunset and full moonrise from the top of Firle Beacon in the South Downs... Unusually for me, I wrote the poem quite quickly and changed it very little before publishing it – perhaps the energies were working through my pen! Imbolc is the mid-point between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. It’s a fire festival which I particularly love because of its associations with Brigid, the Celtic Mother Goddess of arts and crafts, clear sight, healing, inspiration and nurturance of creative talents – something which, through my writing, I am always trying to connect with.  I also love Imbolc because, with so much darkness and negativity in the world today, it is a time for hope, potential, visioning and initiation. With love and blessings as the light returns. Photography by Chanel Baran IMBOLC    by Caroline Mellor I am the dream of awakening. I am the returning of the night.  I am the tough green

WINTER SOLSTICE: A GIFT OF LOVE by Carolyn Riker

I’ve had several days now of alone time… It is unusual and a gift that I couldn’t see until I breathed it. I have been able to watch the sun’s rise through the grey of dawn and smile at the flickers of frost melting on the waving boughs of evergreen. It’s unique to follow daylight as it traverses the tempo of a cat’s soft slumbering purr. Night comes swifter and the glow of candles and the flames of fire comfort me more than the steady stream of always-doing-more. As much as I resisted, I needed this break. I had no idea how much my body was trying to tell me   slow down   until the exhaustion settled in around my joints. My eyes swam in molasses. Heaviness of I-can’t-hold-out-much-long, walked me to the throne of my nest. It’s winter’s gift of self-nurturing and love. It’s been a quiet proclamation of femininity and a need for comfort foods. Lemon crisps and cranberry, white-chocolate shortbread dipped in tea; I felt a hint of being pampered without