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Lovers of Tea Lovers of Tea
by Abigail George
2016-03-28 12:35:22
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The wuthering heights of lovers, of swans, dappled things and daffodils. It is an explosion. This dream world that is poetry. My golden flesh and the notebook of my spirit. The tenderness of the natural world. Madness is just another sickness that will make you tremble. That will make you weep. Remember this. That there will never be anything extraordinary about that. I do not need to love or be loved in return. Nose in a book. Hair loose. The top button of a blouse. Lonely girls make the perfect lovers.

abi01_400_02I do not need poetry as much as I need to swim towards the light. People think that at the end of the evening of war comes peace. How very wrong they are. Why is poetry needed by poets and humanity alike? Through art we achieve freedom. There you will find the archived material. You will find lonely girls everywhere. They are very different from their bohemian types. Those women who are strong swimmers. Mostly you will find them in libraries. Whispering.

Towards the illusion that is both honesty and hostility. Keeping the dog on the leash as it discovers the essences of humanity. Dirt, and the altered states of mind that keeps humanity under wraps for poetry is another country. Far and away. Beautiful and lovely. A bride holding a book. The pages majestic. Smelling of a rose garden filled with bushes galore and together we will discover why humanity, human life is important to humanity. The flux in the matrix.

Why skin and hair, the tapestry of flesh. I need trees and leaves. The grassiness of grass and the seasons. Precious mountains and wild life with all their simple orchestrated movements. The unmistaken frame and rapture of it all. There is beauty in everything. In the simple ceremony of pouring tea. Drinking it primitively. The sunrise is in the image of a woman. Her femininity. What would we call that muscle?

Would we call those wings lungs? A well of tidiness springing up relentlessly. There’s blood in the old life. Blood in the new one. Prospering breath after breath. So empires are built. The crown of laughter. Poetry and studying the poem’s death. Whatever is in the nature of praying meditatively and of discovering happiness behind the aloof façade of illness and the carnival of sickness? Nausea and creative ritual. Impulse is where I live now. Yonder.

Lovers at the deep wreck of the world. He did not need to tell me that all I had to do to find him again and again was to read. Read all the poetry I could get my hands on. Sonnets and odes. It was as if I knew them all off by heart. The silences within them. Lonely girls have their own language. You will find them in translations. You will find them lost. They never look their age. They often read the poetry of Sylvia Plath.

There is silence all around me now. In this wasteland I have earned them, those stripes and the dead and the living. They go on and on. They are my companions on this blue planet. From the beginning of pain, decay and growth until the end of days and when it came to divorce and separation all they, my parents knew of love was that they loved each other and it was enough. For both of them in theory. Of pain they would only learn of that later on.

They would only remember their own childhood when looking at the faces of love on the angelic shine of their children. They would whisper to themselves. Rapture, oh this must be it.

Rapture! An atlas of it. Amongst all the difficulties and how we have all drowned in that lake with those cursed words calling themselves poetry.

Lovers in pitch black darkness. When I discovered the person who I was supposed to love he was my fire to my flint and in childhood I danced but also found myself quietly observing. Studying the minutia. This is where words and language where to be found.

Latin starts to bleed into belief. Serious brides. Serious women. All of them cursed. All of them female poets.

Was Eve really a lady? Drifting from one world at large to the next in search of material possessions to claim as her own with her entourage.

There are ghosts that bloom in this world. There is nothing that you can do about that. However intensely heaven might scar you. The spirit is so self-conscious. So self-pitying that it only speaks to us through our subconscious in valid ways.

abigail01_400Silvery communion. Come to me please. Come to me. You are worshipping the wrong god. You are in the presence of the wrong gods. Shroud cover me up completely. Take your veil and your tapestry too. Lift me towards the light.

The lovers. Would we not all if we could want to be threaded with the magnificence of love, instead of the blurry reality of mourning. Clotting the blood in our heart. Remembering that love. I lost him beautifully. Wonderfully. In the ways that men are supposed to be lost. To other women. To other children. His voice then became a rhyme. Then it became an echo. Mapping out difficulties I did not conceive of anything except that I loved him in ways that were not mutually exclusive. I knew I had to have him. Not marry him but the poetry in his eyes sparkled and his skin did as well and so I was caught up and my humanity reduced reflections of the artist in me. That was dying. The bipolar madness was dying but was also freeing.

In unimaginative ways I will live without him by my side. Without his glare love will remain mysterious. Folded like origami beasts. People generally want to go all the way when it comes to love. I would rather stick to the straight path of impossible sadness.

Lovers standing upon the Arctic Circle. She stood upon that treasured wilderness praying about the history that was sheltered there. That stood tall. This is desire. The cleanliness, the purity of desire. With all its bedazzling rituals that you covet or don’t covet. Emily Dickinson was there. Rapunzel and Eve too with their eyes and their hair like the sun. Thin very thin. Too thin. This is what it is like in the womb for girls. The days are pleasurable.

There on that continent of ice. You taught me how to love even though it was forbidden. My fingers map out the braveries of the atlas. Where men have tread before. Warriors. I desired you like hills desire valleys. The naming commodities and being committed to them. My scars are budding. Blooming like flowers and their vision is like an animal’s. I find myself again in the interiors of a room. The silence is a breakthrough. It is as cool as rain.

I can feel a planting beginning. Through the tips of my fingers through this winter guest of mine. Over this threshold there’s a harvest farmers have committed themselves to. Lover of futility. All my life I have never wanted children. I have longed for companions but never children to take care of or to take care of me. When I am at my most infirm in old age I have always had a travelling heart and that has been with me season after season of all the dark, mocking falling leaves.

Lover of Jane Eyre. Come with me to this wide place. This place of husband and wife, companions. This known yet unknown place. There is still a distance from the rest of the planets, the turning moon and sun. The tides of the ocean, the Pacific and Indian. Which is where we’ll keep on meeting. Lover of prairies. I know what I have to be delivered from. It is silence, the despair of silence, the bleak landscape of the rural post-apartheid countryside but I need the fragrant air that is vital, fresh. My bones need to acquire it. That certain pleasure. My lungs need to be filled with more than grace. I am in need of wings and a rosary.

Lover of light from chandeliers. They spoke of wealth (I had none). Their clothes spoke of it, their speech and their blonde-honeyed hair, every freckle on their nose, knee and cheek. It was always flowers and poetry that made my broken heart smile. The light from the sun. Now that was my chandelier. I always wonder why I felt nondescript, small in their world.

Lover of children. No daughters and sons have I although I am still a lover of other mothers’ children. I have discovered I can do clever things with my hands. Artistic things. Instead of braiding hair I can intuitively thread words. They are my fish. It is no longer winter here. I am no longer a guest in my own country.

I will find me a modern-day Woolf. I will go hunting at midnight. I promise.


    
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