truth

BLACK THREADS

/ deuxiemepeau / 22 Comments

 

Worthy.
Are we worthy? Are you?
I am not worthy to receive you.
I am not worthy.

These are not the words
of any wizard, of any wonder,
of any wonderful god.

Wonderful does not whip us with worthless.
Wonderful does not teach worthless words.

Worthy.
I am not worthy…
These are the words of men
dressed in robes; black threads
woven over winged capes (not that dark knight bearing light)
not dressed as plain men,
preachers married to invisible faiths,
not married to people,
not knowing true love
or what remains after its loss.

Worthy.
Are we worthy, Are you?
Lord, they are not worthy
to speak for me, not in my name
and not, either, in yours.

Worthy.
Were they not worthy,
those wards your black winged women
washed away in the water?
Where is the worth in the world?
I thought laundries
were meant to clean clothes
not suffocate babies in sewers
beneath the shadows.
Was it worth it?
All that worry washed away with the waste.

Worthy?
Lord, here is my worth.
I place it, next to their judgement,
by your feet
and you can decide what has worth
and whose words are worthless
as I reteach myself the value of that single word
in this complicated world,
as I build my own words to be a witness
to losing the less and seeing the more,
I will be my own critic
keeping the Christian and shaking the ‘anity’
that lingers too close to insanity.

Worthy.
I hear only the devil in my head
whispering of worthless.
Surely the right man should be brighter,
lighter?

Worthy.
Here is my worth…

thread carefully upon it,
not like the prints the pious
already pressed into it
from their proud position
behind the pulpit.

I live in the wild world, not privy to any protection.

Worthy.
Are they worthy to receive me?
I profess this belief, to you.
Alone.

  

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

26th poem for National Poetry Writing Month

RED INK

/ deuxiemepeau / 11 Comments

 

I love and lose in circles, scratching
at skin tipped in ink, trying to find
the truth beneath the colours
I’ve let others colour in, hiding
the paler flesh I held from view,
we always need to hold on to something.

I am not comfortable over quiet dinners;
too much stilled air coursing
through the courses as I question
the seconds ticking by, in silence;
will you find me failure and flee?
But I’ll always be the first to fly
since that first flight I had no hand in.

I stir the stilled air with performances;
shy boy in the spotlight singing songs
he can’t quite find the notes for
or find the right to call his own.

I love and lie in circles that spiral
back on themselves, that cast further
reflections, not quite clear, on the boy
now faced as man in the mirror,
that flood more ink into that fading flesh.
‘Chromolume No. 9, Georges?’ she asked,
once, in a play, how many more?

Variations grow stale, thought becomes
tension, creation becomes controlled,
breath becomes bearer, bleaker. My chest
beats too quickly to let in fresh air,
fresh flesh, compressed, repressed.

I cannot lie in these circles,
these spirals that seem to linger,
longer, no longer. I am looking
to find a new shape; turning back,
returning, recalling that first mark,
to measure how far from it I ran,
to see what was left behind,
to lay it to rest and find the rest,
the rest of me beneath the red ink
tipped into this fragile flesh.

   

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

18th poem for National Poetry Writing Month

WHITE LIES

/ deuxiemepeau / 17 Comments

 

What if I admitted to you,
here and now,
before I even begin,
before I even let you in,
that all I am about to tell you is a lie,
perhaps white, perhaps a depth darker.

What if I lay it all on the line,
here and now, naked,
the truth of all the lies,
would you believe me,
would you still listen,
would you still want to hear
and make up your own mind

if what I’m telling you is a lie
or if I’m just laying lines upon the truth?

We live a life
on both sides of the line
and exist somewhere
in between what we believe
and what we know to be false.

I have told the truth many times,
its many lines spilt
over many skins, in many beds

and still I lie alone.

This is what I have left;
this is the truth of my lie.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

12th poem for National Poetry Writing M0nth 2019

RUBY RED

/ deuxiemepeau / 9 Comments

 

We walk on berry bushes,
capture lies in jam jars,
rich ruby reds
to dapple sweetness
over the bitter truth.

We walk on clear waters
fishing through sieves
for reflections
of who we were
before we drowned the earth dry.

We walk on land
but turn towards the clouds,
trying to draw conclusions
from the cotton candy
we cannot catch hold of.

We walk on the world
with a faith

that can’t always keep us afloat.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

2nd poem for National Poetry Writing Month 2019

A PANICKED PULL

/ deuxiemepeau / 12 Comments

—

Beat. Break. Beat. Break.

—

Is there a monitor of these movements

                that shift beneath the skin? A rummaging

within the ribs. I hear a broken bird

                beating against the bars of its cage,

broken.

–

All organs and organisms need oxygen and optimism.

—

Panic. Breathe. Panic. Breathe.

—

I shift within skin whose movements

                I cannot monitor. I have mounded

matters into metal I cannot master. Alchemist

                is not altruist. I can be an organ

of oxygen

–

but cannot count on optimism.

–

Breathe and so fill my lungs, air entering,

                blood flowing through arteries, the rising

and falling, the beating and beating

                and for every beat; a break, for each breath of air;

a drowning.

–

A bird was not born to fly under water.

—

Beat. Break. Beat. Break.

—

Medical is not the same as mental but mental

is now being measured out by medicinal.

—

Run. Rest. Run. Rest.

—

Running from the nest, the rest, the rest of me,

                    the mess that has been left in place

of all the rest that has left.

–

What has been left?

–

I stop in the park and watch the rest, watch a bird

                break from perch, bold and brave, unfold

against the force, feathers in flight, feathers in fight,

                winded in the chest. Pushed back. Pushing forward.

Pushed back.

—

Beat. Back. Beat. Back.

—

I cannot handle heights, I have felt too much

                the fall, my feathers are for fancy now.

I am done with flying. I am digging, deep

                within the ground, deep within the body.

–

I will pull out every root

till I pluck the panic

and catch a breath again that I can breathe.

—

Pull. Panic. Pull. Harder.

—

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

WHO WE ARE

/ deuxiemepeau / 2 Comments

 

I came out;
a silent scream
to summon a voice,

screaming,
a hunger
wanting to be heard.

I came out;
a kept cry, cold to comfort,

aching,
a cry looking for compassion,

I came out
in a time changing,

I came out
from a boy learning,

I came out
to let go of a secret,

I came out
to let the secret let go of me.

We are more than the fears we forgo.

We are more than the tears we trickle through.

It is not over when we tell you what we are

but when we can be seen for who we are.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

NOSTALGIA

/ deuxiemepeau / 9 Comments

 

Nostalgia
is what we try to believe,

the truth
is what we try to escape.

Curious how comfort
can often be found cowering
in the corner of a cell.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

BORDERS AND BOUNDARIES, NO. 10, NAPOWRIMO

/ deuxiemepeau / 5 Comments

 

I hear you

preaching

still

from your performance 

pulpit,

the shit-pit of sermon 

where you scared 

the simple man.

I hear you 

still

preaching 

of parish and prayer

with your manners moody 

at mass 

with the mouldable masses.

Years later

over dinner 

and before dessert 

you spilt your sins

between the bread and wine,

your collar in the car

and your blessed ring

upon your manhood.

We can dress in robes,

we can fuck who we want,

but you can’t preach before the choir 

if you take boys in for hire.

All words and drawings by Damien B. Donnelly