Thursday, 6 July 2023

Two Poems by Antonia Alexandra Klimenko

 



Holding On

                   

                          Dying

                          Is an art, like everything else.

                          I do it exceptionally well. 

                                                         --Sylvia Plath 

 

I’ll call you   he says  

in his best dial-tone voice 

hanging up     

on the word   you 

My long-distance lover 

uses up   all his words 

calls me ‘’Sugar’’ 

before entering me  

 

in his little black book 

before slipping    into mute-- 

listens to himself   breathe 

 

Heavy breathing   is an art 

Holding    holding   holding 

my breath... 

is my calling   

 

I do it 

with my mind open 

and my legs closed

I do it  

until I turn blue 

I do it 

until my bones 

sing phosphorescent 

through my flesh

 

Offline     is another thing 

Offline     I stare at his photo 

shiver   in the immense stillness 

the missing    the letting go--- 

words rusting on my lips   

as I slip   hard candy   

into my mouth 

and suck the receiver 

 

Tonight  

the phone rings and rinnnngs sooooo   

I almost mistake it for my heart!  

The reception is bad-- 

not the phoneline… but his 

I can hear it in his voice-- 

it’s numbing timbre   his unspoken cool 

and 

 

I am haunted

by that long   distant   voice 

inside me               

my little cell   my hell   my prison 

the voice of my little girl  

that rings that dreaded bell  

you should have  

 

You    should   have

waited waited  

waited waited  

waited waited 

waited waited 

 

waited     

to exhale 

 

waited  

for him to call 

 

waited  

for this man  

you’ve never met 

 

 

Selfie 

 

            It’s not through healing that you will love yourself     

                       It’s through love that you will heal yourself 

                                                             --Annabel Vizcarra 

 

I don’t know why they call it free association  

I mean… I pay 120 euros for the hour!  

Well    not really an hour    only 50 minutes                                                             

But why only 50 minutes? Why NOT an hour?  

And   how is it?   that every moment of my life   now  

has become a snapshot   a meme 

every moment    a cellphone selfie!  

  

So…here we are… my therapist   and I... 

(he’s the one on the left     the rapist is the one on the right)  

here we are 

navigating the subterranean corridors of my mind--  

identity anxiety madness isolation loneliness depression suicide--  

the usual suspects      

Younameit   been there   done that  

Well ok  

I haven’t taken my life    at least not yet  

only taken it for granted  

only taking it to the next level  

(I like to tell myself)  

 

Here I am   again    on my knees  

worshiping at the altar  

(let's call it my altar ego)  

worshiping at the porcelain altar   that is  

vomiting    encounters-with-loss  

into the toilet      

Say cheese!                                            

  

(Need I mention… 

all the many hands  

I’ve thrown up     into the air--  

hands of despair 

hands of protection 

hands of surrender                                                                 

hands of deception) 

 

Here I am  

making my way through the labyrinth   

throwing open    the doors of perception 

peeking in and out of recollections   dreamscapes  

closets filled with ghosts of the past   fears of the present                             

(nowhere to hide)   

Let’s face it...                                            

I’m TRAPPED in my mind !   

I’m never getting out!  

Even my clothes complain    

She never takes me anywhere!  

  

And then…   

the endless mirrors 

two-way mirrors like--     

It’s not through healing that you will love yourself     

It’s through love that you will heal yourself 

All the mirrors have memories  of course--  

my guide   for one…  

Others… large     small    convex    

distorted ones    like Fun House mirrors  

or the ones in insane asylums     

(let’s not go there)  

broken cracked shattered memories 

through the looking-glass memories    

all fragmented       

like my life     

like the lies I tell myself     

like the lens of my camera  

Every moment   a selfie!                         

 

Is it   time yet?  

  

Ohhhh   alright alright  

I confess  

there ARE these secret places   

where I keep my intimate wounds--                                     

wounds in the likeness of Christ    and Gloria Steinem 

weeping wounds   leaking wounds                                         

black toxic holes I operate from   and don't want to heal 

(please don't look at me like that) 

some ...   

I   I can't tell you...I'm too ashamed to say...     

I mean... these walls have ears   you know 

MY OWN CELLS!!  are hanging on every word!              

(talk about betrayal) 

 

And     yet                                                               

sighhhhhhhh 

the face we don't show                                     

often bares   the truest reflection                                   

          

Every day     I look into God’s Mirror 

Every night   Death looks into mine 

Sometimes    I scream    

                       silently      into my pillow 

Sometimes    I want    to forget 

Sometimes    I can’t    remember   

                       where    the pain      is    coming    from    

Even my tears  are shaped   like question marks!  

Only     who   is asking   the questions?               

 

Is    it     time        yet?  

 


 

Antonia Alexandra Klimenko was first introduced on the BBC and to the literary world by the legendary James Meary Tambimuttu of Poetry London–-publisher of T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, Henry Miller and Bob Dylan, to name a few.  his death, it was his friend, the late great Kathleen Raine, who took an interest in her writing and encouraged her to publish.  A nominee for the Pushcart Prize, The Best of the Net, and a former San Francisco Poetry Slam Champion, she is widely published. Her work has appeared in (among others) XXI Century World Literature (which she represents France) and Maintenant : Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art archived at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. and New York’s Museum of Modern Art. She is the recipient of two grants: one from Poets in Need, of which Michael (100 Thousand Poets for Change) Rothenberg is a co-founder; the second—the 2018 Generosity Award bestowed on her by Kathleen Spivack and Joseph Murray for her outstanding service to international writers through SpokenWord Paris where she is Writer/ Poet in Residence.  Her collected poems On the Way to Invisible is forthcoming in 2023.


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