neversremedy8: (Book Lover)
Ember is bathing
my son's knees while he sleeps;
Caelan smiles mid-dream.
neversremedy8: (Soap Box)
In honor of the global march against Monsanto, I'm sharing this poem (intended more as spoken word), which will be featured in my new collection, Journey Through the Hinterland, which will be published in the next few weeks.

Not Round-Up Ready

I am not Round-Up Ready
my genetic code
doesn't want to be hacked or cracked
sliced or diced
the strings and strands
of protein make up
the secrets and the mystery
of aeons, the shaping
evolutionary forces
pressures upon my ancestors
and there's more in me
than you seem to comprehend
as you break down the particles,
mixing in the articles
from invading species
in blindness you blend
and forget that I am an organism
breathing and living
and collaborating with a diverse
network of beings that share
in my body, my skin
the air and this earth
keep those chemicals
off my food, get off my land
this soil is more
than you can understand
don't sterilize and laboratize
this is my body, I have a choice
this is our earth, we have a voice


c. 2013 Raven J. Demers

side typing

Nov. 8th, 2011 07:24 pm
neversremedy8: (Dancers)
it's hard to tell
new symptoms from old
when the one bleeds
from the other
introducing the system
to an old friend
can instigate conflict
fresh pain blooming
leaving dancer
bereft of legs,
and cook deprived
of the pleasured tongue.
a slow hand moves over keys
seeking out the half-blind
memory of the touch
of language
its mate rests out of the way,
defeated






[i miss dancing and eating without pain; my soul aches with this lack of communion]
neversremedy8: (Struggle)
she would really like to
scream and scream and scream
and tear her hair out
and then have a good cry
at the injustices
the debts
the pill-drowning friends
the absent lovers
the isolation
and lack of a surety
that she could ever
get it right
but such a fit
would take costly energy
it isn't practical
best to brush teeth
splash cold water on the face
practice deep breathing exercises
and slumber until
the next day dawns
with a reminder that
yet again
nothing was accomplished
no one was saved
no money moved from one hand
to the next
no quick comfort in the flesh
or sweating, blinding orgasm
just a recycled day
and a sticky film of defeat
that won't wash off
neversremedy8: (What Big Eyes You Have)
There will be no earthquake
the ground will not tremble
the skies will not swell
with the tears of ninety-nine virgin brides
the snow will not blanket the body
to lay it to rest
soft shoots will not burst forth
from the ground

There will be only silence
or bird song or the rush of traffic
and the stuttering breath of defeat
when at last the foot falters
the head falls, the unremarkable crash
of flesh given up to the inevitable

A slight heartache might come
for a lover or child or friend
but . . .

There will be no chasm
to swallow the evidence
the wind will not tear or scream
the floods will not bring
final communion
the stars will not cascade to the earth
leaving fiery craters to mark the grave
the final words will go unrecorded
and unremembered

So . . .

why knot the rope?
Why kiss the blade?
Why sip from the poisoned cup?

There will be no twister
come as carriage over a rainbow.
There will be no flash of light
to indicate transcendence.

There will be cold
and fear
and vulnerability
and regret
and pain
and then. . .

there will be nothing.

There will be no mark
left in death that had not already
been made in life.






c. May, 2011, Raven Jennifer Demers.
neversremedy8: (Ecstasy! Ecstasy!)
I wrote this a few weeks ago and forgot to put it here:

Belly-Soul

I keep my soul in my belly
You can see it--it wants to be seen
It burgeons out, pushing out; jiggly
My belly-soul embraces my child with its warmth
Little oven full of light, it doesn't take any guff
and slaps my thigh when amused. This soul of mine gives
its gut-thoughts to me; intuition that never fails.
My soul wants room--it wants to be given space
when I pass by, and you'll notice, though
you'll not know what you've seen
as my spirit makes itself seen
in the jiggle and the sway.

Baudelaire

Jun. 25th, 2005 10:24 pm
neversremedy8: (Good Breeding and Low Morals)
I think I should have read Baudelaire when I was in my late teens when I could appreciate the dark, hopelessness of his writing. Tragically beautiful, yes, but I just cannot appreciate it as I might have when now I hold onto light and life. There was such despair in his writing, co-mingled with his sensuality. *sighs* I have greater hope and find it difficult to overlook my pity for the life he led. Still ... some of his poesy catches in my throat when I try to read it.

Beauty

Conceive me as a dream of stone:
my breast, where mortals come to grief,
is made to prompt all poets' love,
mute and noble as matter itself.

With snow for flesh, with ice for heart,
I sit on high, an unguessed sphinx
begrudging acts that alter forms;
I never laugh, I never weep.

In studious awe the poets brood
before my monumental pose
aped from the proudest pedestal,
and to bind these docile lovers fast
I freeze the world in a perfect mirror:

The timeless light of my wide eyes.


EDIT: G'night. Dream well all. I sleep now. *snore light*

Ze Book

Jan. 13th, 2002 11:48 pm
neversremedy8: (Default)
Well, I've finished the final edit, the proof form is filled out and ready to turn it. Ah, I'm so excited! The cover is beautiful, better than I imagined!

You can view it here: http://proofs.iuniverse.com/0595214231/0595214231c.pdf

You MUST have Adobe Acrobat Reader to view it, though the picture may not open of its own accord, you have to coax it out. Tricky little devil... if you do view it, you'll notice down in the corner of the back cover it says how much the book will sell for: $10.49 US, 17.49 CAN, and (I don't have the pound symbol) 9.49 UK! (Or something to that effect.) I'm trying to figure out how to upload a TINY version of the front cover to this site, but I may give up since it's so late! TEE-HEE-HEE!!!
neversremedy8: (Default)
Sera was a big help and comfort today as we gathered some of my winter clothes and brought them over here. Though we had little time together before she left for work, I again felt the sensation of warmth.

Oh yes, I hope and pray I will again meet Corinne, whom Sera and I encountered both in the library and by the bus stop today. A lovely nanny with little black braids and wire-rimmed glasses who asked my name and talked with us a while. Sera speculates Corinne was interested in me, as I was in her ... ::sighs wistfully::

-------------------

Below was to be posted 12-01-01

Such passion, such determination, yet sometimes I feel so numb.

Recent dream (upon waking 11-30-01):

I spoke French, a teacher with blonde hair who had just moved into a cheap motel. One of my contacts brought me a man in need of help; his son ailed or did not meet his usual standard of “himself.” After a time, they convinced me to see the young boy.

He played in strange ways: winding himself up along the wall by twisting into a very large piece of smooth, red cloth, or would dive into feather-light balls and balloons wrapped inside a ring of this cloth. It took little time for me to help the boy, despite an initial confusion, though now I do not comprehend what help I gave, nor to what end (even less could I put it into words).
I know to many I appeared attractive, yet I had little interest in those who approached me as I stood out in a large parking lot. The building to which the lot belonged held a great gathering of people – a social event such as a concert or convention to which I briefly attended.
I finished my conversation with the father of the boy, and declined his advances, then proceeded to return to the building. The even winded down and I found myself amidst a dying party’s clutter. Balloons, streamers, and old plastic cups littered the floor. Seating myself at a folding circular table, I sipped at a drink I recently poured. Those people still in the main room/gallery watched a film on a very large screen that pertained to the gathering itself and held secrets of deep spirituality and the hidden meanings of life.
Someone sat to my right, as I had turned my back, and the chair with it, to the table to better view the film. It took a moment for me to notice this new addition to my table, but I finally turned to see my mother in a chair, leaning on the table almost as if she reclined on a dais on her side.
In my hands, I had unknowingly gathered a few of my favorite, though tight, clothes – a slip, a dress, maybe a short skirt as well. The actual items did not matter so much as their meaning. They were crumpled in my hand, held in a tight ball, and yet some material had burst out over the sides and hung limp around my hand.
I sat casually holding these clothes in one hand, my drink in the other, and turned slightly to focus my attention on my new companion – my mother. She explained in a melancholic tone that she had reached a turning point – a point of no return, and she had to make a decision. She wanted to remain large and maintain her abundance of flesh, but if she chose that she could never go back. The other choice was to lose the weight, yet gain other things.
I watched as she gave a sad glance at the clothing in my hand. She motioned to it and said, “at least I will be able to wear those again.” She had made her decision.

It took time for me to understand this dream’s meaning, but after I realized the mother in my dream stood as a representation of that part of myself as I see as her, or rather influenced by here (perhaps even “hers”), the meaning became clear. First though, I must explain I have always seen myself as half my mother and half my father – each is a complete opposite of the other. When I am with one, that is the parent whom people say I resemble. Add to that a childhood in which, growing up, I was mistaken for my mother’s sister many times, the odd occurrence of (since puberty) always being almost exactly half my mother’s weight. When she gains, I gain, when I lose, she will tell me she too has lost. Even when we live so far away as we do now (she in Germany, I, in the U.S.), she tells me of her fluctuations when I thought I had broken away from that particular connection.
My feelings of low self-worth led me to believe I could never be more than half my mother, never live up to her greatness – it’s only in the last two years I’ve been able to acknowledge that feeling (thanks, Sera!). I was shocked to discover once that I got higher scores on a particular (unofficial) I.Q. test than she. Literally stunned. My mother finds it difficult to live up to her father and his accomplishments and I’m worried about not even matching hers. Do you have any idea how hard it is to be the daughter trying to live up to the daughter of a famous writer? Ugh! I should not whine so... She’s striving to live up to a man who passed over two decades ago, and I turn myself into a nervous wreck trailing behind her. (Chronic Anxiety Disorder, anyone? I will not take Paxil, either!)
So, to finally get to my long-winded point: this dream represented the part of me associated with my mother, and this part of me decided it was going to be less my mother, and more me, so that one day I will be completely “me” with my loving mother only that – a powerful influence in the shaping of me, but not me. A nice healthy dream for a change – as for the other half of me representing my father ... well, things are a *bit* unresolved right now. Here I am, running after my goals, and he’s back there shouting, “you missed the off-ramp!” (You know, the one I had no intention of taking?)


Dream from 11-28-01:
The only things I remember were the elaborate examples of architecture and the high ceilings. Underneath one of these ceilings which struck awe in me, my guide in the dream explained not only were high ceilings aesthetically and practical for many functions, but they were requisite for something very spiritually important – though sadly, I no longer recall what that great importance is, I am only left with imprint of this importance ... and the ceilings.

Untitled, written 11-30-01:
I live in the Light, and though
I may falter along my path, shadows
Passing briefly over me,
It is in the Light I ultimately remain,
Grateful for my blessings of divine grace.

Gosh, with a statement (above) like that, you’d think I was a Christian.
neversremedy8: (Default)
Once again, I have been notified that my latest poem is to be published by yet another company. I submitted a poem, "Dear Editor" which I intend to use as the opening to my manuscript soon to be publish ("My Name Was Indigo"). Today, I received a letter stating it is to be published in the Spring under the book title, "Under a Quicksilver Moon." Yea verily, and forsooth! But why do I never seem to qualify as the winner? Nor have I yet to be paid for my work. Eight published poems (one printed twice by the same company), and not one cent or certificate for my accomplishments! ::sighs:: I know, bitch, bitch, bitch . . . I'm just frustrated. It's wonderful to be published again, but I would like a greater recognition for what I have created (as long as others believe it to be of worth -- I don't seek renown for something I know to be unworthy). I do hope my book of poetry (MY FIRST BOOK! -- Thanks, Mom!) is found worthy, that others enjoy reading it as well. What's the use of publishing trash? I once read a book so horrible I threw it across the room, and yet THEY published! Waste of paper, waste of money, waste of time. ::sighs:: I don't want my writing to be a waste, and yet, what if, after all of my effort of nightly writing, it turns out to be garbage? I believe in writing something that I would want to read if someone else had published it, I believe in writing something others find great pleasure in reading. I suppose the message of my childhood that I did too many things "half-assed" is starting to sink in. I want to produce and create works of great quality, not just standard amusement. We shall see how my brain, my talent, and my muses culminate... we shall where these stories take me. In the mean-time, my darling Ana is gnawing on my shirt, and sucking my neck.

Oh, yes, I've also been invited to attend a Poet's convention on March 1-3, 2002 in Orlando, Florida. I wonder if I will have the funds to make such a trip? It would be interesting to attend.

(Need to remember to talk to Sera about Ingrid/Wyborn connection for GT. Have new notes for OS as well!)

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