This is not the smiling baby on the train that I remember.
This one’s more serious; one who collects faces. (1)
I must have been looking in from another track
while a third train ran between, layers of glass creating an undersea effect.
On the seabed there will be domes
for women without purpose, who like to gaze out and judge quietly.
The babies will be kept safe
by women who write about hearth, able to see through small eyes.
What I see through small eyes
is nothing but panic. I remember the panic.
(1) This refers to Tania Hershman’s poem Baby
It is like the ticking clock, unheard
in the corner of a room – caught before a full rotation
the walnut scroll work lifting
as each breath grows in anticipation sinking
as nostrils expel melancholy
into the pause, the widening gap before the chime
the rhythm of lines fluttering chest
two moons in front
and to my back a blazing sun
a mane toss
two crescent moons lie waiting
a cotton cloud
two moons are eclipsed but the sun!
I know my mind
like the grooves in your brow and yet, and yet…
I was given the opportunity recently to share my personal story and talk about what art and poetry means to me, when my lovely and talented friend Mackenzie Belcastro asked me to write a few words for her blog.
Mackenzie is a novelist (
about to release her magical realism debut) and a mindset coach. She helps young creatives to find their path. In that spirit, she has created a series on her blog called “Conversations with Artists”. She sent me some questions that got me thinking, and you can read the resulting words by visiting the page below:
Constance Bourg on Chronic Illness, Poetry, and Healing Through Art
who made me who drew elements from the stars to do so
she holds me
accountable for my actions
She is a tough teacher and her lesson is urgent
She holds me
down when I try to turn away
She sleeps with locked doors, provides no gateway to the stars
She holds me
responsible for her grief
I owe her the stars, and her gifts should not go to waste
She holds me
cradles and supports me
and I owe her because she made me.
I’m your dark room, your rough stone walls
damp with unease. Here to inhabit you,
not what you wanted, but it’s what you got.
If you argue, you’ve already lost.
I’m what you haven’t been receiving
and you will suffer more for it.
Because if you would only turn your attention to existing,
the confined spaces in your head would widen
and you would find new spaces to inhabit.
Your heart would calm your mind and
you would realize that the blind joys you’re missing
were stopping you from seeing life as it is.
Nothing to rely on in this world except cycles,
day and night, summer and winter.
Here’s your life to be found;
in admiration of change.
I have elicited kindness and creativity.
I have also revealed the cracks in your societies
where the most vulnerable suffer most.
The glass was always broken and there
is your opportunity, because you are a conduit.
Let the information flow through you.
I’m trying to teach you to take the kindness and creativity
and to start mending those cracks.
I am here, but you are going to be okay,
and things will never be quite the same.