Knives
Posted by Cortney Charleston | Filed under '11 Fall: An Opiate Utopia, Poetry
Stabs of sound through the stillness of
sleeping hours, I can hear the sharpening.
Metal making love to metal in a
distant but familiar place. The
calling of a feast I was not privy to.
Yet somehow, these echoes persist
in their fragile lives, filling the
empty spaces of this heart
as stuffing does a turkey.
This heart, the organ I think with.
The one that recalls every beating
it took in the name of survival.
The one that always strives to
forgive, but never forgets,
because it is also a muscle.
It remembers.
The last gift I clearly remember my
mother giving my father was a
set of silver handled kitchen knives.
And if I ever found courage to cut the
silence between us with my tongue,
I believe she would say the last
gift my father gave to her was my
youngest sister, who is like one of
a set of silver handled kitchen knives.
Teeth forever showing in my presence,
a serrated smile that slices into me
without causing me to crumble
at the sharpness of her mind, as I
do at the sharpness of intentions
behind the extension of knives as gifts.
Since the day my parents cut
the nostalgia loose from my
childhood like burnt crust, I have
dropped crumbs of myself
everywhere I made travel.
In the ears of women. A bowl of chili
cooked in a nearby soup kitchen. The
palms of a God begging the world for
recognition or a dime of every dollar.
Anywhere except the basket
where I was bred and baked.
Because my left foot always wants to leave,
and my right foot correct turns wrong,
they could never agree to walk in
straight lines, so I lost my way home.
Found myself sitting at a table
full of surrogates who carried
me in closeness for the holiday
like a son of shared blood.
They were unawares to my hemophilia.
Had no knowledge my family was fine
china not to be removed from the curio,
did not recognize my meekness as shock
at seeing meals shared between people.
Supper was a solitary endeavor where
I came from. It was separating the
foods on your plate like parents into
different rooms to protect the taste of each.
It was discussing politics with a television
resting idly on cable news. It was
swallowing your pride because you
had not yet learned to cook.
But time has passed through me like heat.
The yeast within my voice has risen,
and friends have been fed by my words.
I have grown, only to see much
of what was with me, still is.
I still dine with a television. I still avoid
cooking whenever possible since some
pots are better left unstirred. I still
separate my foods with restraining orders.
The shame of it all is that a meal will
never satisfy when one fears becoming
what they eat, and so I am left with this.
A stomach full of holes fit to sheath the
knives my father forgot to take with him.
By habit, I sleep atop my belly at night
and drive them deeper into myself.
My silence, an accessory to the crime.
Not to say there was ever a crime,
just that there were victims.
Not to say I am one of them, just that
I would like to avoid making more.
And so, whenever I find myself in that place,
I take that youngest sister, who is like
one of a set of silver-handled kitchen knives,
and bring her head gently into my gut
where I have fashioned a groove for her.
Tell her to be still in what she is, since
she is a blade, and life cannot always
be trusted with a gift such as hers.
Just look to me as proof.
We came from the same set.
Four forged with the mettle to love.
Composition Book
Posted by Cortney Charleston | Filed under Poetry, Print
I.
The reach of my composition book is flat,
fully extended before me like the
equator before the birth of Magellan.
I look into it and see nothing,
aside from white space, that is.
II.
The pages are blank of confessions
like a virgin’s heart to their
spouse the night of the honeymoon.
And like said virgin’s body,
they are so very inviting.
Inviting, the way a guitarist’s
forearms are to the sharp
wit of a needle, saying
make of me what I wish.
III.
I discover an urge to recreate the
world along two dimensions and
simplify things a bit. I know depth
need not be the literal to be reality.
IV.
I write my name inside of it,
a first act of self-correction.
V.
The ink bleeds a little bit,
as if it is rising
from the paper itself.
VI.
I impulsively listen to The Wind Cries Mary.
VII.
I realize that art and pain
have never been more
intimate than in a tattoo.
This is without doubt
something to aspire to.
VIII.
I write a poem about my lack
of composure affront the sharp
wit of a needle, sewing my fate.
IX.
I look into myself and see nothing,
aside from white space, that is.
X.
I look into my book,
and see two dimensions,
working as three.
I made it what I wished.
What Man Feels for Muse
Posted by Cortney Charleston | Filed under Poetry, Print
I am meta for
you. Change me for the better.
All of this must grow.
Excelano Project Fall 2011 Auditions!
Posted by Cortney Charleston | Filed under Announcements
(1) Do you consider yourself a poet?
(2) Do you write poetry, and are looking for a chance to showcase your work?
(3) Are you tired of pointless questions as “engagers” for any type of advertisement?
If the answer is yes to any or all of the preceding questions, consider yourself informed that The Excelano Project Auditions are fast approaching. Come tryout for our collective of warm-hearted, lovable eccentrics. Please come with 2-3 minutes of original material to perform in front of the group! Don’t be nervous, be fly.
Where: Kelly Writer’s House
When: 8-10 PM, September 18, 2011
