This is where the story becomes itself

i. Some say fear is a firefly. That dust

on southern roads is enough

to fill a room full of jars.

If I close my eyes, 

I see us floating like a mist 

coveting the Chattahoochee-- abducting

green water in broad daylight-- 

revealing the bright bones of trees.

If I close my eyes, I see a house

with no curtains clothed in yellow

light--dust glinting behind windows 

as it settles over everything.          ii.Where the particles land

will be left for the children. 

iii. The doors of the house are thrown 

open now and we are let out, taken

to half-past human. You 

and I,                   dear brothers. 

Author's Note

2017

Reviews

[Ern M. Yoshimoto]

i am mystified by all your writings, but this one has to be one of my favourites. it is dreamy, a collision between memory and imagination a work that is wild in scope but contained with disciplined penmanship. the title is so intriguing and it really caught my eye. 'the story becomes itself' a really thought-provoking statment, something that might be said by a guru. and i will think on this statement for a while, but my initial thought was how the stories we tell ourselves become us. and i've been working on rewriting the story i tell myself as of late and have been rebuilding myself in another way.
that is not to say that truth can be denied. memories are our powerful force, and trauma is its fiercest form. how we overcome those trials has not been laid out by anybody. but ... 'The doors of the house are thrown open now and we are let out' that liberation from suffering is possible, is attanable. 'You and I, dear brothers' that we are not alone in suffering and seeking exaltation, freedom.
this is a work dense in themes, but with dreamy and lucid lines. i shall revisit this one again.

[Eilis]

Hey, Ern. Thanks as always for your thoughtful responses. I haven’t read this poem in many years. This is from a time when I was writing fluidly about things as I tried to understand them. Sort of mythifying them to demystify them for myself. I sometimes would write lines like the title just to try to define something for myself. The half-past human and particles landing being the children’s responsibility feel particularly important to me as I read now. I think that’s sort of the clearest connecting points to the title. I used to think my story was also my siblings’ story but I have learned that isn’t exactly true. I’ve learned a lot about reality since writing this that makes it hard to write in this cathartic way anymore. Wish I could. Anyway, thanks for bringing this one up. It’s good to revisit and I appreciate hearing your thoughts about it. I enjoyed your review.

[Robert Trakofler]

I remember everything being covered in dust when i was in texas and this seems a bleak painting of unsettled feelings wafting in the dust storms of your mind. I remember as a child the coal dust settling on everything in Pittsburgh when the mills were all full force. The dirtiness would accumulate everywhere how my grandmother would have to take down the sheers often to clean off all of the blackness. i get sense of feel the need to wash away the bleak but knowing it will return soon like the cracked smile of an abused child attempting to hide the black smudges on her face. this has a very poignant voice to this Eilis

[Eilis]

Thanks, Robert. Some poems come out of the ether and you catch them and put them down. You get a feeling what they’re saying, but they remain aloof even to you. Dust is pervasive. That sense of pervasiveness is something I’m exploring here, so your comments on the dust make a light bulb go off in my mind.

Thanks, as ever, for sharing your stories. Reading people’s stories is my favorite thing about sharing at this site. Always appreciate your reading.

[Chris Shaw]

I do not know about dust on southern roads, having spent most of my childhood in green country and in the UK. However I got sensations of choking, and irritation in the eyes and skin when I read your lines. It was unpleasant, the dust was everywhere. I do not feel much comfort here either and the closing of eyes makes me believe there was a desire to escape, to be elsewhere. I am feeling claustrophobic and wanting to fly and leave that place. There is much depth here Eilis, much unsaid, so I can't be sure of your meaning. To me it speaks of a childhood far from happy.

Chris

[Eilis]

It can be very dusty here, and there are a lot of dirt roads still in some of the more rural areas. When it hasn’t rained much, the dust is everywhere. The heat will dry everything out.

I do crave the green of your part of the world, Chris. It’s beautiful there.

Your comment is very helpful. What you are seeing is very like what I was hoping for. I know it’s cryptic and feels like faceless human presence and that’s what I want, but if it’s too cryptic it’s hard for anyone to connect. So maybe it needs further work. It is the sense of things that is important to me with this one, though. The sense of loneliness and dread a child can carry around.

I’ll keep thinking about it.

Thanks, Chris. I am grateful for your engagement and responses. Best to you.

[gram linski]

it's got this little house on the prairie mixed with children of the corn kind of sinister vibe going on, on first read, could be wrong, will get back to it when I have a little more time, great read

[Eilis]

I do want sinister or something in that neighborhood, so that’s good. Your two references are actually great because those are two significant references from my childhood. I think this needs more work, just judging from the feedback. So, I’ll keep at it.

Thanks, Gram. I appreciate your time.

[John Alexander McFadyen]

A most dystopian image that remind me of some of those American films/movies set in remote US counties with acres of desert and a single dwelling. This reads well in it's dark foreboding tongue. Third stanza final line seems disconnected?

[Eilis]

I like what you see here, John. It’s actually that sense of things that I want to convey rather than a recognizable story. Foreboding and disconnection are great words.

I may still need to do some work on this, but the line you point out is actually a hinge/pivot toward the final stanza. The opening toward the human element. But, I can work on it more to make it seem more cohesive.

Thanks for commenting, this is very helpful.