After seven months dipping in and out of a semi-catatonic state of non-creativity, I come bearing updates.

February 16, 2009
Deux Morceaux (Poetry)

Four Post-Its (Poetry)

Requiem (Poetry)

–

Cue attempt number 834595 to keep my various oeuvres in order. Much rather like my annual attempts to read Pride and Prejudice to no avail (I refuse to get into a discussion about this), my previous attempts at keeping my work in some sort of quasi-sensible arrangement seem to all fail miserably.

With any luck, mahrie@wordpress shall become a permanent home for my menagerie of writing, which seems to have become rather abandoned of late. Comment on the entries, or e-mail me at mary.ws.leong@gmail.com with regards to questions, constructive criticism, and otherwise.

Cheers,
Mary

paint me two shades of frightful
a chrome-plated steel and a frosty teal

nuremberg in your pocket, gunshots at your heel
dunkirk at your feet and sassoon on your lips
decanted logic a pearly suspension floating atop cholorinated water

sugarfree cinnamon hearts baked into concrete walls
ventricular siren-red blobs thudding soundlessly in stone cells

sheer incandescence of allusion
omnipotent allegory
capricious happenstance
esoteric polyglot

I.
words melt off from sizzling block of double-underlined verbatim and rhetoric;
taboo conjectural paradox slithering in irreverent postulation where synthesized neochromatic scales hiss
from between clenched teeth and heathen tongue

II.
automatons whirr in dizzy precision, a constant start-stop motion clockwise and back round;
steel marionette-strings tug at ivory piano keys plinking on a half-hazy bed of stained velvet
as bone-old dust blows ad misericordiam in the key of e minor, flat

     the gentlest flutter of a butterfly’s wing signals the beginning of the end just like they’d predicted: a tornado off the coast of china, and the san andreas fault is cracking right open
     somewhere, the latch on the vault of time opens     then there is a soft tinkling sound it’s getting louder and louder compelling us to move so we take to the streets hooting and hollering to the toll of messianic bells
     each resounding gong-echo counting keeping score one two three seven thousand and a billion     until your inequities and my inequities and his and hers all one giant black ink-stain on the gummy-grey shirt-sleeves of humanity
     i am Right i say he says she says
     our sanctimonious mouths starving tilted skywards wondering praying crying words stream forth from charlie brown soundless-motion-picture lips like manna falling from the skies
     we lift pious palms outstretched webby-gnarled fingers high above empty heads proudly grubbing shoving snatching pushing paying homage to the slightest sliver of holy eucharist, dizzy plastic and twisted steel
     through an aubergine haze of nicotine cyanide iodide marijuana smoke burning books bras flags graven hands grope blindly, not-quite-half-seeing as its strewn playthings lie and whirl in a broken dollhouse

The rain pelts down into the silent, still gloom. The steady thud of dirt falling into the gaping hole in the ground punctuates the erratic symphony of tears and muted coughs. Glances are exchanged briefly; heads are bowed out of solemn respect for the dead. Gloved hands are folded neatly in laps, clutching damp white roses; black veiled hats and damask mask girlish innocence, while coattails and ties add years to the boys’ slender, youthful figures.

Martha feels the tears bubbling over; the deep chasm within her filling with anger and hate. Hatred for fathers who had betrayed them; fathers who had taken their trust and twisted it every way. Anger for mothers who had stood by blindly and pretended everything was alright to keep up appearances. The tears stream down her cheeks, soaking delicate lace gloves as she wipes her face angrily with her hands. They burn a furrowed path down her pale cheek as she glares fiercely down at her lap; they branch as they flow down their crooked tributaries. A slight gasp escapes her lips; she hastily lowers her head as the preacher reads on, his voice a calming, steady drone in the silence.

A cold hand closes upon hers. Her eyes meet a pair of piercing blue orbs, completely devoid of any tears. Leaning in close, he speaks softly and rapidly.

“You loved him.”

A statement, not a question.

“Did you think, for a moment, Martha, that he would look at you? For someone like him, who could barely even comprehend what was occurring in his life, his inner turmoil simply consumed him,” he whispers, his breath hot against her cheek.

“Even if his father hadn’t managed to get under his skin, he would have turned against himself in the end. Failure, Martha. That’s something we all have to get used to, don’t we?”

Focusing on the preacher’s words intently, she wrests her hand from his stone-cold grip. Her hands drift towards the roses in her lap as she strokes the waxy petals, trying her hardest to focus on the present.

“I see you running, Martha. Running away, running faster and faster. I know what you’re running from. Last night, I saw you out of the window. You were like a ghost passing under the street-lamps.”

Stone-cold fingers, brushing the gentle slope of her cheekbones.

“You’re so free in the woods. Like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Like the rest of the world isn’t watching. But maybe the rest of the world is watching on as you blunder on into the darkness. Maybe you’re dying inside even as the scars on your arms and legs heal,” he whispered, his voice low, tickling her ear.

Drip, drip, drip go the raindrops as they continued their incessant patter. Drip, drip, drip go the tears that stream from her downcast eyes.

“You speak to him in the darkness, as though he can hear you. When your girlfriends giggle and chatter, you run again. How long, Martha? How long can you keep running, until you are tired and want to lie down to sleep? But you’re frightened; you don’t want to lie down and sleep, ever, do you?”

Fingers brushing away every errant tear.

“You’re just a shell now, Martha. Any different from his body, which now lays cold and still in a large marble case?”

Fingers pressing to his lips, then to her cheek, as she shudders from the contact, and from the unbelievable consolation it gives her.

“You will go to his grave every weekend to lay wildflowers. Maybe you will scatter a few red roses for remembrance, and maybe he should be so lucky. As for me, Martha? Can you learn to love someone who has sold his soul to the devil?”

Fingers trailing along the edge of her glove, along the cold skin of her arm, tracing the familiar, loathsome scars that she keeps so well-hidden.

“Shall you weep for me, Martha, when I have gone? Shall you toss a lily, or perhaps even a carnation, upon my grave? The Rilow family cemetery,” he murmured, “filled with the ghosts of the past. Of madness, of impossibility…”

Fingers rake through strands of damp hair clinging to the black crepe of her dress. She clenches her hand into a tight fist, even as she yearns for the feel of cool skin against hers. She yearns for tenderness; she yearns for protection. She feels stained, blemished; she fears that she desires the sensations that build upon her skin.

The mournful chords of the funeral dirge ring out as they stand one by one, bowing slightly before his fresh headstone. Girls with white roses ruminate on what they could have done; boys with letters lay them in a neat pile as they ask themselves who could have guessed. She kneels to place the roses upon his grave; as she opens her clenched fist, out splashes the crumpled petals, tumbling onto the grey headstone. They are splayed out, petals detached from stalk; the other girls stare at her accusingly, as though she has committed some grave defilement of the freshly dug grave.

Fingers, closing gently upon her wrist, as he forces her to look at him as she resists the urge to run as far away and as quickly as she possibly can; fingers cradling her face gently as he presses a kiss to her forehead, tender and icy all at the same time, before he vanishes into the darkening evening, a phantasm of ice and stone, the sole remnant of his presence a battered copy of Faust upon the ground.

It starts off softly, a quiet whisper
growing by day, peaking
at some startling crescendo:
the pitter-patter of feet turning the corner;
the ring of the bell before lunch-time
as mingled voices cry out in discordant
harmony with giggled excitement;
the last loud sip from the first Slurpee of summer;
the trickle of Chevron coffee into a paper cup
(that caffeinated existence).
We made these hallways ours as we
read frantically before tests
groaned about our constantly sleep-deprived state
and counted down on our fingers the days left.
So we lift our arms and pull the black sweaters over our heads
(for the last time).
We walk away without a backward glance
and think
maybe, just maybe
someday down the road
we’ll think of this pile of bricks
and perhaps, in the back of our minds
we’ll miss it just a little bit.

“Last night, I told Fiona that I wanted to end it.”

“But why? I thought you said that she was different from the London set.”

“Oh, Don, don’t be so naïve. London, Bristol, even Edinburgh-”

“When were you in Edinburgh?”

“- they’re all the same.”

“Now, surely you can’t truly believe that.”

“How very progressive of you. What does it matter, really, whether she’s a secretary or an aspiring actress? It all comes down to the same thing – a quick tumble; then, the unsentimental goodbye; finally, the refusal to meet each other’s eye in the morning-”

“You know that’s not how it goes.”

“You’re right. I missed the part where I inquired after their financial situation.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But truly, Don, you will soon come to see that they are so very…clingy. I might as well have a large sticker that says ‘Property of’, and be done with it all.”

“I think that’s called a wedding ring.”

“In any case, Fiona was just a temporary fix. Look at it this way. I’m an Oxford candidate. I’m done my schooling. I’m entitled to a little-”

“Entitled?”

“Yes, entitled to a little distraction here and there. You know, a bohemian sort of carefree attitude-”

“Bohemian?!?!?”

“Yes, bohemian. You see, I’ve got a carefree, almost careless attitude to sex and all, none of that prudish mid-Victorian uppity rubbish with binding lifelong vows-”

“Firstly, Stuart, you are not bohemian in the least. You like money, remember? Secondly, I’ve known you long enough to wager that this is just your way of saying that you’ve set your sights on some other poor girl, who you will doubtlessly try to charm – at least, until she gets within two feet and makes a run for it-”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“How most eloquent of you. Do go on.”

“I shan’t. Suffice to say, I trust Posner will be quite pleased with this turn of events.”

At the age of seven, they played by the large oak tree, and ate biscuits coated with jam and cream. One day, as they frolicked in the warm summer sun, they found a large hole dug in the ground by the Stiefels’ home. Moritz grinned and tugged at Martha’s hand.

“Come on, Mar. Let’s pretend it’s a door to another world, and we’ll have a grand adventure!”

Martha fidgeted nervously, tugging at the hem of her dress.

“Do you remember the creatures that jabbed at Alice when she entered the other world?” she asked, her eyes wide. “What if we’re so large we don’t fit, or so small we can’t find our way out?” she asked earnestly.

“I’ll just go in for a bit,” Moritz replied, grinning. “Maybe I’ll have tea with a Duchess! Or play croquet!” he laughed as he leapt into the hole.

As he was sent hurtling towards the bottom of the deep pit, he cried out for fear of the darkness and depth.

“Moritz?” Martha cried as she peered down the hole. She could no longer see him – she was thoroughly terrified. With tears streaming down her face, she bolted towards the house, shrieking, “Fraulein Stiefel! Fraulein Stiefel!”

Moritz was tugged out of the hole. His mother pressed a clean, white handkerchief to his scraped knee; she wiped away the tears and mud which stained his cheeks. She pressed a gentle kiss to Moritz’s forehead and smoothed his hair back gently.

“I’ll get both of you some iced lemonade,” she said, smiling.

As she walked away, Martha turned on Moritz, sniffling slightly.

“Moritz, you must promise me you’ll never do anything so stupid again.”

“I promise, Martha,” he replied solemnly, taking her hand in his.

//

She bowed her head as she dropped a white lily into the open grave. Was he in heaven now? Was he an angel, looking down upon all of them? The boys and girls walked in a single file, allowing the gentle breeze to lift the white flowers as they tumbled gently onto the marble coffin. She sighed; she shook her head as she lifted her eyes to the unresponsive, still body of Herr Stiefel. Oh, Moritz, she thought, did he really hate you so? Why didn’t you seek out those who loved you? Her hands fell to her sides as she watched the steady fall of dirt into the gaping hole in the ground. A tear trickled down her cheek; she wiped it away harshly, angrily. She recalled the oak tree, the biscuits with cream and jam –

Why, Moritz, why? You promised me, she thought, you promised me.

“What did you say?” she asked, startled.

Margarita whirled around, and found herself face-to-face with one of the Gypsy women. Stringy white hair framed a gaunt, weather-beaten face; peering out from that ravaged visage were large violet eyes. A tattered shawl rested upon bony shoulders and hung loosely to skeletal wrists, while a faded rain-stained chemise clung to her slight figure.

“You will be taken by many, but only loved by one. You will be consumed by fire, and washed by rain,” she rasped, her voice harsh and guttural. Margarita convulsed slightly, shuddering at the feel of rough fingertips trailing up her cheekbones –

and she blanched at the thought of the faceless bodies she had conjoined with under the cover of night; the fires of passion that had plundered away at her soul as she clutched to the last vestiges of hope while she thrust her outstretched palm into the swirling vortex of unrestrained desire, ebony mingled with red –

As raindrops pelted down upon her, Margarita spun around wildly. Salty tears streamed from her black-rimmed eyes as she searched frantically for the Gypsy woman, but all that remained was a crown woven of thorns and lilies lying on the ground.

He alights from the ship, carrying his baggage as he breathes in deeply the sea breeze as it wafts the musky, salty scent of the ocean towards him. He is here, he thinks; there can only be a new beginning.

//

“Father, I would like to go to Amsterdam,” he said, feeling the warm, supportive feel of his mother’s hand closing in tightly upon his.

The memories that remained in Germany were too much to bear; his retreat from empiricism, logic and coherent thought had unnerved his parents. The remainder of his old school acquaintances who he had once shared thoughts and schoolyard discussions with had retreated; his thoughts dwelt unyieldingly upon those of Moritz – and Wendla. Sweet Wendla! Each weekend, he laid a bouquet of divine white wildflowers upon her grave; he whispered his embittered thoughts into the darkness. And he loathed himself for it – fancy speaking to a grave-stone, to a phantom! His previously adamant discourses on the institutional nature of marriage – of life – had collapsed around him tenfold, and he sought solace in a passive inner self-destruction that compounded day by day.

First, the books. He had no idea how it had happened. When the door banged open, his parents found him standing over a pile of torn pages and ripped book covers, clutching the remnants of Faust in his cold, trembling hands as he gazed on in startled incomprehension.

Then, the silent retreat. He had run into the woods, desperately seeking his wood-nymph. The memory of the gentle touch of her hair upon his face, the heady essence that was all at once pure woodland sprite and fairy queen embodied in human form – and now, caged and eternally bound beneath a cold slab of stone, tied to the unyielding clutches of Death’s fingers, gripping in a deadlock – she could have had the world at her feet; instead, all she got was his prone body, bowed before her grave –

“Hermann, the boy wants to go,” Fraulein Gabor pleaded. “If he wants to, he must. He cannot go on like this – dreaming and lying between the living and dead – he’ll go mad!” she cried, her red-rimmed eyed damp with tears.

Herr Gabor bowed his head in the dimming light of the flickering candle.

“If he must go,” he said, his voice thick with finality, “he must.”

//

On the next ship bound for Amsterdam, Melchior found himself bidding farewell to the Rhine and the land he had known so well. Watching the waves tumble and splash in their impetuous waltz, it was all coming back to him now. The games of pirates played in the day-time before disillusionment had dawned and stripped away their blindfolds. The games in the park, the schoolwork, the innocence, and the soirees at their family homes as Georg played jigs in the background…

As he alights, he is greeted by the bustle of the port. The bohemian free-wheeling atmosphere suffuses him to the core of his being. The chatter and excitement infuses him with a sense of hope, washing away the cold mask of ennui that had clung to him for so long. He could feel his blood pulsing beneath his skin, the renewed sense of excitement that had bubbled so strongly as he lay in a hayloft, fingers entwined- and he cringed. No, he had left all that behind in Germany. He would forget. He would let Amsterdam take him; consume him wholly, like the sweetest mistress of all: adventure.