Song of oats, crisp bells against a metal scoop, then percussion, precise, lid pressed shut before rainstick music of chia seed. My throat is dry. No sound comes out. Still, my breakfast is singing.
"Its own page / in the leaden scrapbook." Wow. You manage to hold the heaviness of abuse together with the lightness that girls and women are taught to brush these things off with, as if they are nothing . . . and as if that demand for lightness isn't its own heaviness, its own page in the scrapbook. This is really beautiful and moving.
Rebekah, this is so moving and powerful and so full of opening awareness and that knowledge that comes from deeper than out known consciousness. Thes eliens are superb: "From the first slip/of a hand around my front/to the first slip of a syllable/from my mouth was/probably just five seconds,/but it felt like years/and has since become/its own page/in the leaden scrapbook."
It brought sadness, anger and resignation in me, this all too familiar story with its own unique impacts on every person who shares it. Thank you for sharing this part of your story.
Lisa, your spoken voice may need a bit of rest, but your inner poet voice is always coming through. I like your spoken voice and look forward to hearing more of it!!!
The second stanza feels like a chorus, building to crescendo. This is lovely, Larry. And the line "bells ringing, some in tune" made me giggle with delight.
I hope you recover quickly! I also have a weird relationship with my voice. I find myself singing aloud or making odd random noises, but I can't stand to hear myself on recording.
Thank you, A! And I get this. Recordings used to feel unbearable to me. I've slowly softened toward them and begun to feel like I can recognize myself in their sounds.
Strange how these messages come to me at certain times and at the appropriate moment. Hours ago I decided I’m tired of talking to everyone and anyone and going to attempt to just shut up and MAYBE listen.
I’ve said that so many times, you’d think I’d be voiceless by now
Crawling on the ground, inhaling sand, still intent on declaring this truth:
“I don’t have a good voice.” I’m not being obtuse when I say that’s bullshit.
No, I don’t have a beautiful singing voice. I wish I did. I love the tuneful,
The musical, the lift and fall of singing. I wish I could sing better than I do.
It’s true.
.
But also, I’ve let it extend, this bad statement, into so many places in my life.
I don’t speak up against injustice because I don’t have a good voice.
I don’t speak up on behalf of my daughter when she’s traumatized by a little boy in her kindergarten class because I don’t have a good voice. I stop going to poetry readings
Because I don’t have a good voice. I don’t say that joke made me uncomfortable
Because I don’t have a good voice. I don’t correct the doctor who mishears my symptoms
Because I don’t have a good voice. I could go on forever and ever, crawling across a new desert
Whispering, because singing would be wrong, I don’t have a good voice.
.
I don’t have a good voice. But tonight, I sang, “When you get caught between the moon
and New York City—I know it’s crazy, but it’s true—if you get caught between the moon
and New York City—the best that you can do is fall in love” and no,
I still don’t have a good voice, but I love that song and have since I was a little girl.
My favourite conversations are the ones where I am so deeply engaged
that I forget to monitor and modulate;
where there is so much trust
that I forget the sound of my own voice
and what my face is doing,
whether my hands are moving too much.
I love this - and those are my favorite conversations, too!
I really relate with this, A! I love the simplicity and vulnerability of this poem.
....so much trust.......rare, indeed.
Very nice, A. I look forward to that engaging conversation with you one day, face and sound included!
I live way off key.
Its a nice quiet haven
for sharing with same.
"sometimes it takes
a long time
to sound like yourself"
-- miles davis--
Ooooh I love that Miles Davis quote so much!
I like this, Chuck! It reads like a fine jazz riff that you will recognize anywhere, “round midnight!”
Finger snaps over expresso
This one's pretty heavy. It's something that comes to mind when I think of voice, or not having one.
.
On account of nodes
on my vocal cords I was
supposed to go speechless
for ten days, not even
a whisper, especially not
that in fact. I took a little
notepad to school with me
but I couldn’t do it, I felt
too weird, and whispered
even though I knew
I shouldn’t. As long as I was
sacrificing something
I could tell myself I was
being good.
.
At my friend’s house
that weekend a bunch of us
were watching a movie including
her dad who was always giving us
back massages and somehow
that was normal.
From the first slip
of a hand around my front
to the first slip of a syllable
from my mouth was
probably just five seconds,
but it felt like years
and has since become
its own page
in the leaden scrapbook.
.
Upstairs in the kitchen I got
the glass of water I’d said
I needed and he appeared
in the doorway and apologized for
"the shirt thing."
I whispered something I don’t
remember but I bet it was
nice as pie. I told myself
I was being good as I returned
to the couch and no doubt
sat next to him again (though
not too close) and never
spoke up, not even
on day eleven
or in the full-volume
life that followed.
"Its own page / in the leaden scrapbook." Wow. You manage to hold the heaviness of abuse together with the lightness that girls and women are taught to brush these things off with, as if they are nothing . . . and as if that demand for lightness isn't its own heaviness, its own page in the scrapbook. This is really beautiful and moving.
I'm so sorry, Rebekah. I wish so many of us didn't have stories like this.
Rebekah, this is so moving and powerful and so full of opening awareness and that knowledge that comes from deeper than out known consciousness. Thes eliens are superb: "From the first slip/of a hand around my front/to the first slip of a syllable/from my mouth was/probably just five seconds,/but it felt like years/and has since become/its own page/in the leaden scrapbook."
It brought sadness, anger and resignation in me, this all too familiar story with its own unique impacts on every person who shares it. Thank you for sharing this part of your story.
1 Hundred Posts… Absolutely amazing! We need to put them in a book… surely there must be some publishers, lurking out there…
I don't know that ALL of them belong in a book! But thank you! 💜
Lisa, your spoken voice may need a bit of rest, but your inner poet voice is always coming through. I like your spoken voice and look forward to hearing more of it!!!
Thank you so much, Larry! I'm happy to report that I'm speaking at full volume again.
That’s cause to celebrate! 😊
This one came to me tonight after our Christmas Eve service, full of music, poetry, prayer and wonder.
Christmas Eve 2024
^
The chatter calms as Gloria begins to sing,
ethereal voice cutting across this dark night,
the sound of angels harmonizing on the wind,
heart songs rising from the ashes
of the broken ones.
Bells ringing, some in tune,
Coaxing the shy ones, the singers
who were told too early
they had no voice.
^
On this night let us find our voices.
Voices of hope against the despairing dawn.
Voices of peace where all we can see is war.
Voices of joy against the despair of the elitist tyranny,
Voices of love rising against waves of hatred and cruelty.
Voices of light blending into the darkness
such that we all become one.
Voices of a dream that refuses its burial,
bursting through again and again
in the places where the shadows have fallen.
The second stanza feels like a chorus, building to crescendo. This is lovely, Larry. And the line "bells ringing, some in tune" made me giggle with delight.
Thank you Lisa! Our bell choirs are passionate and dedicated, even with the occasional missed note! !
A Christmas miracle 💕🎄
I hope your voice returns soon ♡
Thank you so much, Tanya! After two days of near total silence, it's making its return!
I hope you recover quickly! I also have a weird relationship with my voice. I find myself singing aloud or making odd random noises, but I can't stand to hear myself on recording.
Thank you, A! And I get this. Recordings used to feel unbearable to me. I've slowly softened toward them and begun to feel like I can recognize myself in their sounds.
Strange how these messages come to me at certain times and at the appropriate moment. Hours ago I decided I’m tired of talking to everyone and anyone and going to attempt to just shut up and MAYBE listen.
Well, if I have to have laryngitis, I’m happy it’s for a good cause like the universe communicating with you! 😂❤️
So...you're not ready to sing in the choir!
Afraid not!
“I don’t have a good voice.”
.
I’ve said that so many times, you’d think I’d be voiceless by now
Crawling on the ground, inhaling sand, still intent on declaring this truth:
“I don’t have a good voice.” I’m not being obtuse when I say that’s bullshit.
No, I don’t have a beautiful singing voice. I wish I did. I love the tuneful,
The musical, the lift and fall of singing. I wish I could sing better than I do.
It’s true.
.
But also, I’ve let it extend, this bad statement, into so many places in my life.
I don’t speak up against injustice because I don’t have a good voice.
I don’t speak up on behalf of my daughter when she’s traumatized by a little boy in her kindergarten class because I don’t have a good voice. I stop going to poetry readings
Because I don’t have a good voice. I don’t say that joke made me uncomfortable
Because I don’t have a good voice. I don’t correct the doctor who mishears my symptoms
Because I don’t have a good voice. I could go on forever and ever, crawling across a new desert
Whispering, because singing would be wrong, I don’t have a good voice.
.
I don’t have a good voice. But tonight, I sang, “When you get caught between the moon
and New York City—I know it’s crazy, but it’s true—if you get caught between the moon
and New York City—the best that you can do is fall in love” and no,
I still don’t have a good voice, but I love that song and have since I was a little girl.
That has to count for something, right?
This is so perfect: "rainstick music of chia seed"