There Are Dark Places and Spaces Where We Can Still Talk About Them: A Poetic Response to “Darkness Too Visible.”
These companion pieces were written for good friend, Ellen Hopkins back in August of 2010. It felt appropriate in light of the recent Wall Street Journal article, “Darkness Too Visible” by Megan Cox Gurdon.
I’d like to re-dedicate these pieces to the authors cited in Gurdon’s article, the YA Community who has come out in support of #YASaves (Thanks Libba and Maureen) and to my Room 210 Readers.
“There Are Dark Places and Spaces Where We Can Still Talk about Them”: Part I
There
in the back of the house,
in the clothes closet, under the bed,
or maybe under cartoon-covered blankets,
are
elements more frightening—
terror existing, plundering under covers—
things far scarier than anything found between them—
dark
scraps and fragments of horror returning
those we would like to forget, at least deny
or tuck away deep, deep within
places
where they could be dismissed.
We could pretend they were never a part of us,
that they never settled into the places where we slept
and
dreamed. They never appeared in family photos
of some better place, waiting not only for us,
but for those who would come after—
spaces
where the sun might make itself known,
safe spaces for searching, for sharing,
for safety. A place for stories we might tell and hear
where
we could feel free to smash glasses against stone walls,
where the turn of the cul-de-sac was not the end of the line,
where four letter words like hurt and heal could come together;
we
could stay up late into the nighttime and reclaim the dark
as a time, once again, for imagining the possibilities—
a time or re-imagining, for dreaming, remembering we
can
be larger than the elements that try to make us
feel small and helpless, building shelters from security blankets,
lifting the edges to take a peak underneath into morning
still
to find that we are still here, we are still alive,
and the sum of who we are is the sum of what we share
when we come out of silence ready to listen;
talk
about the tough stuff, baring our scars
to show where the new growth is like a new skin
proof of a battle waged when we were thrown
about
but found our bearing and straight path
the journey narrative, where we are the hero, the conquerer
and we no longer have to fear these things or anything like
them.
“There are Dark Spaces and Places Where We Can Still Talk About Them”: Part II
There
standing in entrances and before closed doors,
standing at the ready with pens, not ball bats, to spin away
twists of yarn the stories that aren’t, knowing full-well the tales
are
those we need to tell, hear and share—how the prick of a finger
can lead to a punch in the arm or a scratch running at arm’s length—
the progression of the unhealthy touch, in the light,
dark
or any other places the bad things find us, sometimes in the suitcases
of a relative we trusted or in a small plastic baggie with a twisty-tie
offered by the hand of a stranger we’ve just met
places
where we should have never wandered,
but how could we have known beforehand what—who— could hurt, cut, and heal
were to be found just as well in the fluorescent lighting
and
tiled floors so carefully selected at a store specializing in making homes?
Now our shelters are like those blanket-crafted, make-shift tents,
and we live between the covers, the writing on the walls
spaces
white, messages clear as day when we are ready to receive them.
Don’t you know we are seeking guides not guardians;
we left our homes to seek the trusted keepers of the tomes?
where
are those awaiting who can help me to clarify my thinking?
Are there no answers in ancient scrolls or personal journals with answers?
And why are you clutching the scrolls so closely to your chests?
we
followed the examples of the bee and our low buzzing went unheard,
so we suppressed our song into a kind of hum,
all the while flapping our arms to no avail ; did you not see we had questions?
can
we agree that there are those who have been called to keep the stories?
we agree that there are stories that need to be carefully kept and told?
have we resolved ourselves to the two elements of story—the teller and the listener?
still
our hands are waving in the air and you mistake this
for some failed attempt to fly, so you categorized the steps
and standardized the act of taking wing in the guise of careful tutelage
talk
about what’s appropriate for each person,
look closer, you closed the door on the story and the hero both;
neither can find their way out from the trunk, the closet, the burn barrel, looking
about
for their release, out in the open where they can be heard;
there’s a journey to be taken within the words they would share
and all we need to do is to give them a place and to listen to
them.
Even better after the third or fourth reading! Thanks, Paul.
Nice blog, Paul. I love it..
Regards
Jessica
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