Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, NEVER BLOOD, by TOONI GORDI


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

NEVER BLOOD, by                    
First Line: Father, what can you want of me ... Mother
Last Line: Inviolate of words.
Subject(s): Strangers


Father, what can you want of me . . . mother, why must you cry?
O father and mother who brought me into this maze,
Why do you pull me about?
I know -- I am a puppet; neglected toy whose eyes
You smear with tears, mind you twirl into dizziness,
Hands you would mould to your ego-desire.

"Her heart," you said, "was never blood but water,
And water spills clearly, clotting no heart-beat."

(Father, you prick my eyes with frozen tears . . .
Mother, you pinch my mouth with words unspoken.)

Home is the place, you cry, home for the children;
Why do I not return to a house on a shaded street
Where feast and fire await me, and friends of your selection;
I am to walk in your house and lie in a fat strong bed,
I am to gorge my belly, recline on overstuffed lounges
And gaze on white walls and talk with white neighbors --
White and overstuffed and pink with a passion for mediocrity. . . .
Come home, you fling exhortation; come home, you angrily beseech.

"God, is this your home?" you said. (A small room,
A few old chairs, a hard and narrow bed.)
"You choose this, preferring poverty and cold
To a warm bed and a pleasant home? . . . you must be mad!"

Oh, my dear ones, when will you leave me to my ways?
Will you never believe I am alive, real,
As you and your friends of another spinning. . . .
Can you never know? I want one place to fold myself in peace,
To speak with those who speak my things,
To laugh with those who laugh my laughter. . . .
And oh, the secret of weeping alone!

Shall I walk into your house, stranger in your midst. . . .
Shall I call you Father, Mother, talk with your friends?
But my soul would sorrow, my heart would crowd with pity.

Yes, this the bare hovel I sleep in,
In these dark little rooms I live, alone with crowded hours
Now crowded with torment for your chain has wound me tight
Stifling all breath, desire. . . .

O mother and father, where shall I go now?
You have driven me from my self, from flashes of dream;
You have been to my house and scattered your words:
Words of contempt into every warm place I knew,
You have built a shadow overwhelming the walls,
The nooks I knew, the very crevices -- my home!
O mother and father, where shall I go now?
I flew from your house to escape the words
And now you have spidered my home with them.

Patience, O terrible ones, I shall find me a home
Inviolate of words.





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