This world is as difficult to be in as it is beautiful. Life is not easy, and often, it is not fun. We are often surrounded by lots of violence, pain, suffering, ignorance, and fear. Personally, I tend to believe that by being here, in our human bodies right now, we are learning lessons that will allow us to grow into stronger, better, more compassionate beings. Pain is not pleasant, but it *is* a teacher--perhaps a harsh one--but a gracious teacher nonetheless.
Eventually, we will all leave our human bodies behind, and I believe, continue to evolve and grow as spirits free from the flesh. You may think that when we die, the lights go out and that's it. That's fine, too. But, we all can agree that as humans, we are here sharing this common experience together somehow--with all its ugliness and its glory.
These poems explore human experiences--the ways in which people interact, love, fall out of love, and the ways we can occasionally get a glimpse at something greater than ourselves--that which transcends the human condition, and links us back to "the common source."
I also write poems that explore this "return to the source"--the re-unification with the universe. If you're interested, check out my spiritual poems, too. I seek to explore all the realms in which humans interact: this mundane world, the spirit world, and also the "in between"--the place where this world and the other world meet. I hope the poems take the reader on a journey of sorts, to explore what's inside us all: the spirit.
Here's a sample poem of mine. . .
whenever I walk up stairs, I am still
picking my way around the creaks
in the boards, touching the veenered
banister lightly, holding my breath
as I creep. I don't want to wake my dad
after he's "gone up"--so he won't
scold me for staying up so late.
whenever I sleep, I am still
sleeping in that red and white room
in my squeaky twin bed with the
polyester quilt scratching my face
the area rug threadbare on
hardwood, stained from juice, from puke,
the bubble lamp casting its dim red glow
in patchy shadows on frilly white curtains
yellowing with age
--him snoring through the wall,
keeping me awake.
whenever I want to travel,
or take a new job, or go out with a friend,
I am still sitting in the den,
biting my nails,
reading the preamble to the Constitution
or the Gettysburg Address from its
bowed frame on the wall, trying for hours
for the courage to ask his permission
not afraid of "no," but of his quiet,
"why do you wanna do that?"
I've worn his disapproval
like the old orange turtle neck sweater
I despised--constantly pulling at the collar
for air.
And I have been slowly unravelling
it, row by row, year by year,
slowly pulling it apart
yet the yarn still trails me.
The sweater loosens
sometimes, but it chases after
me, across both oceans, to Kentucky
and back to Pittsburgh--always back to Pittsburgh.
It comes along obediently, like a hated tail,
like a bothersome other, breathing down my neck.
After twelve years you'd think I'd find the guts
to pick up a pair of scissors and severe that
string, tear the remains off my body
and stand bare-chested, arms above my head,
breasts thrust to the wind,
knowing I've stopped leaving home
knowing I'm finally gone.
Do you want to read more of my poems?
Him
Father
Coffee in the Stars
She Kneels Before Me
Away
The Place Between
The In-Between Places
Four Houses Down
There You Stood
Bath Water
Earth Quakes
Dancing Lessons
That Day
Obstruction
When Crows Speak
Bird in the Hand
All poems copyrighted by the author, Tracey Besmark 1997©
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