Toybox (women's lit final poem/paper)

[aliaspseudonym]

Toybox

 

hush baby

stop your crying

stop your calling

everything's okay

just be quiet

just hush

 

* * *

 

When you're born, they put you in a box

full of string & brightly coloured plastic.

A toybox. There are two toyboxes

& everyone goes in either the one or the other.

 

The one's bigger, of course, & has all the nicest things in it

like transforming robots & racecars & laser guns

& independence & creativity & power & crayons

in bright primary colours, & other things that go

beep, beep, vroom, beep, beep, vroom, kapow!

 

The other's not so big & has other kinds of things in it;

frilly things with clothes that come off & tiny houses

& tiny deformed plastic horses with shiny plastic hair,

& crayons in shades of pink and light blue & turquoise,

pretty but lacking in intensity & passion (the critics would say.)

 

* * *

 

hush child

why must you ask so many questions

this is how you must act

this is who you must be

here give me that toy car

wouldn't a little toy horse be better?

see, you can brush her mane

isn't that more fun

 

* * *

 

I saw a painting of an angel once,

hanging on an art gallery wall

staring down at me from tens,

dozens of canvases at once.

She was pale and graceful

with long flowing blonde hair

& a white dress and great white wings

& a smooth but wise face prone

to serenity & rapturous joy.

She was very pretty - no, beautiful - but

looking at her from so many angles

sometimes with her clothes changed or hair dyed

i wondered: where are all the others?

Not all angels play the harp, you know.

 

where are the angels with skin of diamond, with faces like lightning & eyes like fire?

where the six-winged seraphs, who shield their faces from mortal eyes?

where the mighty flamesword guardians & the messengers of living light?

where the near-human wanderers and strange-eyed glory-singers?

where darkwinged & fearful Azreal, who beckons the living onward?

 

I fear we have forgotten them, or worse,

mistaken them for demons

& demanded they either grow halos & big white wings

and fit inside our little box called 'angel.'

or else stay outside with their burning eyes

& many strange wings waving to the rhyme of glory & electric guitars

twanging in time with the pulse of the universe

& we have to be very careful not to listen, because then we would have to understand.

 

* * *

 

hush child

be still be-

wooooooosh zoooom!

what are you doing?

i'm playing with the pony see

see she's got little wings she's like a pony angel

she's a pegasus she blows the clouds around

and makes it sometimes rain and sometimes not

and sometimes the evil queen steals the rainclouds

and makes everywhere a scary desert

and then the pegasus flies to her big mansion

but the queen casts an evil spell

and takes her wings away so she can't steal the clouds back

but then the brave pegasus sings a song

about rainbows and splashing in puddles

and green growing things and stuff like that

and the song is so pretty

the queen starts to cry and her tears turn into rain

and the pegasus runs and steals her wings back

(she is very fast you know)

then grabs the queen by her dress like this

and carries her all over the land while she cries

so her tears break the spell

and fix the whole desert and

everyone is happy!

be careful not to crash into the furniture

 

* * *

 

It's hard, drawing without all the crayons.

Red is for passion, but all you have is pink.

Blue is for sorrow, but all you have is teal.

Yellow you have, and light green--

you blend them but the darkest you can get

is a sort of muddy greyish brown,

like certain kinds of moldy bread

or watered down gravy.

 

But the things, the things that fly through your head

stunning reds & blues & colours you can't name

but you know you can draw, & dark twisted shadows

delightfully terrible, entrancingly wicked.

You've got to get them out before your head explodes or melts

into a dull and unappealing mess of pinkish grey...

 

well, really, the other crayons

are there just outside the box &

if you just sort of reach...

 

* * *

 

is this really acceptable?

i'm not sure i approve

it seems suggestive

crude even

 

but-

 

not at all what i was expecting from you

 

but-

 

hush i'm not finished

really you're so graceful

and charming and nice

it's hard to believe you

wrote something like this

couldn't you just sort of

clean it up a bit?

 

but life isn't clean

 

i know, but

you are

or aren't you?

 

* * *

 

“The beauty of the natural world

is as a panacea to man's soul.

The gentle purifying embrace

of still shimmering waters,

and the verdant greenery waving

in the gentle summer breeze

fan the soul's fire

to heights of true creation

to sing songs in praise of such beauty.”

 

& so he sang to the wind & the waters,

sang at length with many fine words, pretty words,

words like verdant and shimmering, &

they sang in return

softly,

wordlessly.

He did not listen.

 

Soon the wind rose amid the verdant branches

& ripples disturbed the shimmering pools

& in the distance spoke the thunder wordlessly

in its language of heat and noise and ozone-smell

& the man said to himself nature is not so splendid

nor so invigorating after all, I must find shelter.

 

& so as branches cracked & fell

in rhythm with the roaring wind
& so as raindrops beat the leaves

like marching feet a thousand strong

like wild loud arrhythmic drums

played by surely the wrong sort of angels

unbound & unbounded by the heartbeat-tempo

the steady badum badum of human life so-

 

storm

five letters, s-t-o-r-m

so simple, so common, so understood

so readily bound up in little chains of letters

t-h-u-n-d-e-r thunder, c-l-o-u-d cloud, w-i-n-d wind

adjectives too: savage, roaring, fierce, strong,

the man runs through the s-t-o-r-m storm

covering his ears to block out the song

& says to himself it has all become so alien

the nearness & realness of it strains against the letterchains of naming

& overhead angels with wings of cloud and arms of lightning laugh

with voices like glass breaking in wind & say

you cannot name the thunder

you cannot name the rain

you cannot name the trees & the pool

& the sunshine & the sky

they have their own names already

they sing their names with wordless glory

 

but the man did not hear this

he covered his ears, you see,

because he already knew

what storms sounded like

from having read about them

& heard about them from other,

distinguished men like himself

in very fine coats & hats

& he had heard it was not at all the kind of sound

that envigors the soul & sparks the imagination

& that in the midst of a storm the sensible thing

is to cover your head & cover your ears & run

run for cover. Then, through the safety of a window

you may appreciate the poetry of nature's fury

without having to ruin your fine coat & hat

or your illusions.

 

* * *

 

hey sweetheart

watcha up to this evening

wink wink

oh hush lady

don't give me that look

I'm just playing

can't you appreciate

a little fun

 

shut up.

 

oh shush, jesus

no need for that kind of

overreaction

sheesh, women,

am i right?

 

shut up.

that's not who i am.

 

ok then

i mean if you say so lady

i don't mean to be rude or anything

just saying you're being

a bit cold, you know

with the sudden shut up and all

you know

 

you wanna talk then?

ok

you know what

i've been thinking

 

uh oh

 

i do know

i know all the rules to this stupid game

but what do i say now?

it's rigged, there's no move to make

you're not allowed to be wrong

i'm not allowed to be right

i have to admit that you're right

you get to decide how i ought to feel

because everyone knows you're right, and

everyone has to fit inside these

these toyboxes

or wordchains

be clean be pure be quiet

be the muse the angel

use the crayons you've been given

that should be enough for anyone

i think i've had enough

i'm declaring war.

 

um, war on what

 

on walls

fences

the sides of boxes

all colours of tape

& chalk lines

everything that says

'this is who you are.'

i am going to decide

who i am

 

oh

you're really serious about this

I guess

I really was kidding before you know

I didn't mean to, like, offend you

 

that's the worst part

everyone thinks you can't hurt anyone

as long as you follow the rules of the game

as long as you're not a bad person

that's not true at all

but people think it so loudly

that when you tell them otherwise

they don't even hear you.

 

sorry, did you say something?

 

* * *

 

There's a line

on the ground

& i've heard

people say

that i can't

go across

for the line

on the ground

says to stay

where i am

for my face

& my voice

are the kind

that belong

on this side

of the line

though of course

i'll admit

that it's nic-

er to be

on this side

of the line

but to look

at the line

makes me sick

in my gut

& it's on

ly a line

drawn in chalk

on the ground

guarded on

either side

by male-

volent looks

and by mean-

ingless pride.

saying that's

how it is

how it al-

ways has been

how it al-

ways will be

if you cross

that white line

drawn in chalk

on the ground

they're afraid

that you might

turn their world

upside down.

 

Well, you know what?

their world isn't all that great anyway.

& the more the lines get crossed,

the more they get scuffed and blurred,

till eventually maybe

you can't even really tell

where the line was anymore

& we'll all laugh together and say

“gee, we sure used to believe in

a lot of really silly things.”

 

* * *

 

Your hair so black like deep rich soil,

your skin the colour of...

um

I'm not sure actually

I'm thinking of a particular brand

of salt and vinegar flavoured potato chips

but that's not very romantic

maybe a white sandy beach?

 

there seem to be a lot of kinds of dirt in this

 

I'm doing my best here

anyway long yellow-white beaches

along long winding lakes

high in the hills with the light waves

caressing the banks

where the air is cool and clean

do make me think of you

a little.

 

i suppose your heart is in the right place

is it my turn now?

 

Oh, do you have to go?

You're better at this than me

you're going to make me look bad.

 

am i?

words have always liked me

better than they have you

so why should you care

when i best you

at what i do best?

 

Hey I didn't mean to, I mean,

you're twisting things around again.

 

i am

but only to show you

they snuck them in there, you know

along with all the toy cars and crayons

the other things. the insecurity

the pressure. you are responsible.

family is an iron ball shackled

to your ankle before they send you

out to sea. but you'd better not

buckle under that pressure

you'd better not show weakness

because i'm not allowed be strong

and if i am, you'd better be stronger

and if we disagree

you have to be right

because if you're wrong

the whole thing crumbles around you

and you're not invincible anymore

and the world is scary.

 

I don't know where

you get this stuff.

 

i keep my eyes open, mostly

and read, and listen.

 

did you want to take your turn?

 

yes

 

* * *

 

your eyes are dark and brown and deep, and gazing into them

i think i see glints or flecks of green or gold, hidden like bare

gemstones lodged in a rugged cliff-face, glimmering at sunset,

and i see the reflection of my own eyes, pale steady blue-green

 

but what ignites in me is the way you look at me -- your eyes flash

and blaze with desire. they drink me in greedily and shimmer

with joy when i smile and meet you eye to eye, and adoration bounces

back and forth between eyes reflected in eyes, for this is love:

i love you i love you i love you loving me you love me you love me you love me loving you love you

and so on until the sun should fail to rise.

 

* * *

 

i wonder how many poems weren't written

because someone said 'oh, but you'll make

look bad, won't you.'

 

I'm sorry.

 

i forgive you

and, um

i've got a few more things

would you like to hear them?

 

I think I would.