Writer’s Quote: Carmen Giménez Smith

Welcome to another writer’s quote/poem Wednesday, where I share some of my favourite poems written by other authors. Today’s featured poem is one I came across only recently, and I haven’t been able to stop reading it. My heart bleeds at it’s verses. The poem is titled bleeding heart by Carmen Giménez Smith, and as I couldn’t stop at just one poem, I can safely say she is one amazing poet.

The poem, bleeding heart, talks about an overly sympathetic individual who feels so much, in fact too much. The poem begins as a metaphor- “my heart is bleeding”, then goes on to describe all the things which make the character feel so much; bleed so much. The suffocating effect of feeling too much can be felt in the line where the writer says, “it becomes the cork of me and I choke on it.”

She goes on to further explain her predicament by referencing, she bleeds so much, sometimes, she is a raisin (a dried fruit). And then immediately afterwards, she lists some more things which make her bleed, Indicating, as long as there is a sympathetic situation, she would always feel, bleed.

I love this poem in particular because it reminds me of the current situation we are living in, so much atrocities going on in different parts of the world, and my heart bleeds for them. It bleeds for the animals being treated cruelly for no fault of theirs, the children getting displaced, the women and men oppressed and abused- my heart bleeds.

Bleeding Heart BY Carmen Giménez Smith 

My heart is bleeding. It bleeds upward and fills
my mouth up with salt. It bleeds because of a city in ruins,
the chair still warm from sister’s body,
because it will all be irreproducible. My heart
bleeds because of baby bear not finding mama bear and it bleeds
to the tips of my fingers like I painted my nails Crimson.
Sometimes my heart bleeds so much I am a raisin.
It bleeds until I am a quivering ragged clot, bleeds at the ending
with the heroine and her sunken cancer eyes, at the ending
with the plaintive flute over smoke-choked killing fields. I’m bleeding
a river of blood right now and it’s wearing a culvert in me for the blood. My heart
rises up in me, becomes the cork of me and I choke on it. I am bleeding
for you and for me and for the tiny babies and the IED-blown
leg. It bleeds because I’m made that way, all filled up with blood,
my sloppy heart a sponge filled with blood to squeeze onto
any circumstance. Because it is mine, it will always bleed.
My heart bled today. It bled onto the streets
and the steps of city hall. It bled in the pizza parlor with the useless jukebox.
I’ve got so much blood to give inside and outside of any milieu.
Even for a bad zoning decision, I’ll bleed so much you’ll be bleeding,
all of us bleeding in and out like it’s breathing,
or kissing, and because it is righteous and terrible and red.

P.s What makes your heart bleed? 

Life (as she knows it)

What is life but a series of curveballs,
Of deaths which come unannounced,
Of heartaches and tear stained pillows,
Of forevers which end in the now.
Of betrayal by those whom you’d offer,
Your head on the pedestal for;
Of regrets and could haves, all the chances
For which a second, might not arrive.

She believed she had mastered life’s pattern,
All the crannies and nooks on its vast…
But the life that she knew was one sided,
Woven up and knitted out in pain…
She had seen loss one after another,
There was only so much she could take,
‘Fore the unbroken diamond she once was,
Lost its shine, by walling up pain.

If you see her she still is unbroken,
But her shine is never the same.

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Side note: There has been a death in the family as a few of my blogging friends know. And that’s the reason for my absence from the blogging world for this month of may. Will get back to your comments and posts as soon as things settle down. 

Writer’s Quote: How frail the heart must be-

For this week’s writer’s quote, I want to try something different. But of course, it requires you guys to play along. So, last time, I shared the poem “thoughtless cruelty” by Charles Lamb. This week, what I’m going to do is share a poem and leave it up to you guys to guess the author. Are you ready? Okay.

The author wrote the poem below at the bare age of fourteen. I am almost 21 and I can only hope to write as good as that some day. When the author was asked regarding the poem, she said “Once a poem is made available to the public, the right of interpretation belongs to the reader”. I absolutely agree with that. Here is the poem below:

I thought that I could not be hurt;
I thought that I must surely be
impervious to suffering-
immune to pain
or agony.

My world was warm with April sun
my thoughts were spangled green and gold;
my soul filled up with joy, yet
felt the sharp, sweet pain that only joy
can hold.

My spirit soared above the gulls
that, swooping breathlessly so high
o’erhead, now seem to brush their whir-
ring wings against the blue roof of
the sky.

(How frail the human heart must be-
a throbbing pulse, a trembling thing-
a fragile, shining instrument
of crystal, which can either weep,
or sing.)

Then, suddenly my world turned gray,
and darkness wiped aside my joy.
A dull and aching void was left
where careless hands had reached out to
destroy

my silver web of happiness.
The hands then stopped in wonderment,
for, loving me, they wept to see
the tattered ruins of my firma-
ment

(How frail the human heart must be-
a mirrored pool of thought. So deep
and tremulous an instrument
of glass that it can either sing,
or weep).

As I asked at the beginning, who do you know write the poem? Looking forward to your answers in the comments, come on, don’t hide your knowledge. 🙂

Day 13: I wish I could

I Wish there was more I could do,
Than merely,
Put words in writing,
echoing the same thing,
over and over,
Let the children be children
In a land,
where the river’s turned red,
And the cries, of our young ones
Pierce, the atmosphere-
Pleading for mercy.

And I wish,
my voice held the strength
To impact,
every person with the power
To make, a difference
And bring, the bloodbath
To an end.

And I wish, My heart was
as wide
As the ocean, to absorb
Your pain, so you won’t
Have to carry, this grief
On your own.

How I wish,
There was more I could do,
Than put words in writing.

---

prompt: I wish I could (for December Poetry Challenge). So far, this prompt was the most uninspiring one yet for me. My heart goes out to the victims of the current crisis going on in Aleppo (Syria). 

The above image is courtesy of if.LovedThispic.com

Day 5: The blues-

The blues-
Is the term we use when,
Trying, to downplay an emotion.
When the flashback of a memory,
Opens a door, we’ve kept locked up
for Far too long.

When tears descend our cheeks in silence,
And the words which come so readily In writing-
Escape us.

When loneliness is inviting, like say-
After a heartbreak;
And we know, we deserve better,
Everybody knows we deserve better,
But still-
It doesn’t put a damp on the heart that’s hurting.

When pain is magnifying,
And words cant describe it;
And people notice our faces,
Stained in all the right places,
We answer-
Just feeling a little blue today.

But, the truth is-
A little blue- is never- just- little.

---

Today’s prompt is Blue. This poem is in response to DecemberPoetryChallenge. 31 poems in 31 days. The above image is courtesy of Bulgariasega.com

On Grief-

I would tell you loss gets easy,
But I’m sure you’ve felt that pain,
An aching dull sensation,
In the middle of your chest;
Hands tremble uncontrollably,
With the phone gripped to your ear;
Sorry we couldn’t save her,
Is the last statement you hear.

The world spins all around you,
But the truth stares in your face;
A soul you loved, a part of you,
Gone from this universe;
To tell you loss gets easy then,
Wouldn’t take away your pain;
So weep my love- unburden
Grieve if it keeps you sane.

The above Image is courtesy of Brokengypsy.tumblr.com

C- Cruel to be kind

She was taught as a kid,
It was all in good spirit,
When harsh words were hurled at her.

So she grew up thinking,
Maybe love was hidden,
Behind hurtful remarks.

She was taught as a teen,
Man is cruel to be kind,
When the bullies would get physical.

So she married a man,
Who displayed love through fist,
Blaming every mistake on her.

She was taught as a kid,
How to smile through the pain,
That it’d only make her braver.

So she grinned and faked it,
Hid her scars and hurting,
Believing it would make her a brave heart.

Until one sullen morning,
Her weak heart gave away-
She was gone before medics arrived.

They labeled her death- sudden;
Unaware she’d been wilting,
Since the first ever lesson she’d had.

the above image is courtesy of The odyssey. This is a scheduled post, I am away at the moment, hoping to be back soon. 🙂

Broken-

The words he said left an echo which has only now, begun to fade.
“I didn’t break you, you were already broken”. It felt like a hundred pins were stuck into me all at once, with my body’s gating mechanism shut down so that I could feel the pain in every cell of every part of my body. He broke my heart, but it was my whole body which fell apart.

“Broken”- he called me. I was damaged, damaged goods with no value. I spent a long time trying to make sense of that word. A little longer, I spent on anyone who could fix- broken. God, I hated that word.

I wish I could say- that I realized the words he spoke that night were false, lies and nothing more but I can’t. I’m only just now learning, maybe he was right; maybe I am broken; but I am so done waiting around for him to come and fix me.

The image above is courtesy of Lost Treasures found.com

Bandaged-

It’s got to go, it’s got to go;
Ripping the bandage hurts more than the wound
At first- Eventually, the pain wears off.

Shivering underneath floral quilt;
Tear soaked sheet, pain sears deep;
It’s got to go, it’s got to go.

Ignoring the deep cut, cover the skin;
One bandage, then two- a layered up ulcer;
Ripping the bandage hurts more than the wound.

The bandage- festering deeply rooted wound;
Ripped off to heal- it hurts, it bleeds
At first- eventually the pain wears off.

day 17 of October Poetry Writing Month. Word prompt- bandage. Poetry type- Cascade, a poetry type In which the poem does not have any rhyme scheme; therefore, the layout is simple. Say the first verse has three lines. Line one of verse one becomes the last line of verse two. To follow in suit, the second line of verse one becomes the last line of verse three. The third line of verse one now becomes the last line of verse four, the last stanza of the poem.

IMAGE CREDIT: Pinterest 

F- Faith

Nobody knows,
With that I was wrong;
Cause He who created,
The soul from dust;
Knows exactly,
The pain that we bore;
Without reservations,
He knows it all.
So now here I say,
That somebody knows-
The pain that we carry;
He watches us all;
He knows that the sorrows,
Will make our faith strong;
That twisting and falling,
Plants our feet firm;
Crying and screaming,
Makes our eyes clear;
To see vividly,
The goodness on earth;

Nobody know-
That statement reflects,
Depair deeply rooted-
And we’re  a long way from there.

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Day eight NaPoWriMo’s challenge is to write a Palinode. It is a poem in which the poet retracts a statement or view expressed in an earlier poem.