Archives for posts with tag: Poetry

 

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The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon…
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments.

 

To read more work by Oriah, check out her blog: http://www.oriahmountaindreamer.com/

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Anti-Romance Under the Brooklyn Moon

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By Mikaela Conley (Copyright 2013 The Daily Saint/Mikaela Conley Photo: Erin Conley)

 

You are not good for me, and I, not for you
Perhaps this decade-long anti-romance
is meant to be a connection at a distance,
Across countries and oceans and bridges
and years and computer screens.

You brought me to a barbecue steak house
I ordered a vegetable plate.
I still remember the pain that flashed across
your normally overly confident face,
and I took too long to justify my food choice.

You passed me a drawing of a dinosaur in law class.
I laughed indifferently, but I later wondered the meaning.
I was the most and least special person in an instant,
and that feeling dragged through the years.

I went away.
You did, too.
You told me to come back.
I did.
You were with someone else.
I was, too.

And we danced this dance under the Brooklyn moon.

You were broken.
I was, too.
We wanted to be fixed,
but we were both addicted
to the broken pieces of glass that surrounded us,
the ones that drew blood,
the ones that, when the light caught them just right,
shimmered deceivingly at sunset.

You asked me to marry you,
several times,
drunk and high and more charming than ever,
and I laughed it off, rolled my eyes, walked away,
cool and indifferent.

When really I thought,
Maybe this is just us.
Perhaps this can be us.

And an image flashed over my mind,
like a ticker on a newsfeed:
I sat at a computer, writing yet another verse,
you smoked a cigarette,
hunched over a workbench, sharpening knives
and listening to notes so melancholy
the imagined music created puddles in my human eyes.

Eight years after the vegetable plate,
we reconnected on Broadway.
And we drank tea and whiskey and cheap beer all at once.
And you kissed me once under a haze of toxicity
and like the days long lost,
that moment felt real.

And we danced this dance under the Brooklyn moon.

But then you were gone again.
And I was, too.
Beaten down by the city’s sights,
I left in an instant.

You check in now and again,
a photo, a saying, a Happy “Miscellaneous Holiday,”
something indifferent and connectively undone,
and I will do the same.

And in that way,
We are connected and unraveling all at once.

A good invention that never found its purpose.