I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.
Sylvia Plath
A (halo) of sonnets for Sylvia Plath (An Excerpt)
by Conny Borgelioen
IV.
Foreign as crutches on a wedding cake
— how do we admit, how do we face,
our own selves wrapped neatly in a paper?
Once we release ourselves from all the frill
and froth, does it still matter greatly how
we eat our cake? This one’s superior
position is negated. In short, he
does not exist and all this glitter is
hurting our eyes. Lower them now
like the heavy clouds. So, I have said it.
The sea will touch the sand because peace is
our birthright, and his stories I don’t like.
I shun them to keep them from possessing
me. I no longer subscribe to a saint.
Today’s Fourteenlines is a shout out to a fellow sonneeter. Conny Borgelioen’s sonnets are crisp with experience while not overly controlled. I stumbled across her poetry one day while having my morning coffee. Having lived with someone who also faces a life-long disability, I can appreciate the courage it takes for her to persevere and keep being creative. Check it out and if you like what you find, buy her a cup of coffee.
V.
Our saintly subscription longs for the gray,
the game of tussle between soil and sky.
Have no fear when the godly head lowers,
just like the seagulls, low, skimming sand hills
planted with tough weeds, sweeping forward like
ice skaters, bent over, forming a green
counterpart to our angry mother sea.
All parts of us have learned to run
to the house with the doors that fold
back and open out upon… upon…
the center. I believe along the fold
is where everything resides in so far
that meaning can spring out of nothing. Off
balance, we scramble, ever concealing.
Fourteen Lines 