Helen Wing is one of our newer Poeticians, who for me is an example of the precise raison d’etre of the collective. Helen decided to pursue writing much more seriously, and in some very distant beautiful places, because of her involvement with the collective. Or so she tells us, and I radiate joy at those emails. She only read with us a few times, but her absence will be felt, and here is hoping she will return at some point in the winter to Dubai to perform some more. Today I woke up to rain, and sweet foggy memories of heavy moments in a twinkly night, and for sustenance, I was given these poems below, by Helen, to share on the site. Thank you, darlin. I hope you enjoy them, anonymous readers.
(And Rewa :P)

Of daemons in the duster, and of the most important things

Of the most important things

I simply cannot speak:

of passions old and new,

(although I do, but don’t do too,

if you get my drift,

not in any way that means that

we can seamlessly,

in blazing cherubim honesty,

stand here holding

each other’s feathered hand),

of babies’ toes, of undone

laces and straightenings,

of the agony of just one line of verse,

of yearning the size of Ireland

and potential not existing yet

even in the ancient patterned

dry-brown wet-red

pebbles

I line up by my bath,

as lapidary taunts

that reminisce the suppurating disconnect

between the my long lost bodied earth

and the light years hence out-distancing

of my spirit forsaken sky,

of the leagues between who I meant to be

and who I then became

and how

none of the stones I stepped upon

the peach chalcedony, the jadeite,

the insect snare of the agate seam,

the darkest hidden antimony,

or the weathered vicious flint,

were supposed

to slice

anyone

but

me,

of insignificant, shadow-ash

small, domestic pain,

strung like a grey grease-stained

stinky-stale dishcloth over

the tarnished lip of the sink

of my down-the-plughole type of life,

the enemy of Jif;

of mammoth envies

and sluggish rusted antonyms,

of fizzed-up dreams and nicotine

blasphemies and coked up, choked up,

staunched and cauterised desire,

of things I lost and cannot find,

of who fits in and who does not,

of whys and hows and whens

I really should have known,

of things in the end that I never even realised

I was supposed to try and understand.

No, of all these,

shall we call them,

important things

I simply

cannot,

cannot,

ever

speak

(though I am finding now,

since these translucent, polished light

swarming,

caressing and consoling

gentle whisper

angels

came

fluttering around the kitchen,

and the bath

and the stairwell

and the hall,

(all the places people secretly have to weep),

witnessing the ablutions

of my suspended in mid-air violet whittled life,

since these gorgeous fluttering winged creatures came,

I am finding

that of at least a few of

these seemingly important things

one day soon,

perhaps,

I may

be able

to

write).

So?

So?
So, she starches your shirts,
turns your collars,
and
replenishes
all your
underwear
every
three
months.
Spic and span!

So?

Wouldn’t you rather she took you in her mouth and
pulled on you
like she is dragging the shirt off a fidgety child?

Don’t you still want her to
….
draw you out until
you release from the depths of your belly
the moan
that is the nearest you can come
to a pin-striped
cosmic om
…..
which while it lasts
threads every part of you
onto
the silk skein of the frothing web
that spreads out
to every last corner
of the
universe?

‘Well, yes
and
no’
you say…

You say
you would prefer
to have
…
both…

So?

So, you already know that,
as time succeeds
where you
don’t,
eventually
you’ll prefer the shirt.

So,
you tell me as a mark of pride
that she is very clean.

So?

So, explain to me why this one thing
will never change
will always stay the same,
explain to me
that feeling as you button up
your freshly laundered shirt,
break out new pants,
pull on your navy
matching
socks,
explain to me
how spic and span
and primped and cleaned,
she makes you feel
like
dirt?

Hart

Thought:
that all that is
beautiful
should be
taboo.

Desire:
that your fingers trail the length
of my carnelian, carnal cave,
my teeth
buried
deep
in your stag-white,
snorting
throat.

Need:
that the past
should
cease.

Wish:
that we treat
this new
with a tenderness
reserved for all new-borns,
that we think
as one
unsplintered
soul
about
giving
it
a
name.

(Hymning him who brings the light) and now the light

I was always so afraid of death

but now

your words roar into me with the brute-purple force

of

immortality.

Your words run like slaughter swords,

like knives, they cut into my flesh,

your crimson, blazing courage

roaring

into

…

Your red, red words

burn into me,

leaving scars

upon

my

flesh,

…

slice right through

the thicket I had grown around my heart,

battering,

scorching,

razing,

flattening,

did I say battering?,

the wilderness

of

cyan weeds,

ochre’d, stinking corpses

and bulbous, silvered flies,

obliterating

the hecatomb

of

my

misery.

I was always so afraid of death.

Now dripping lupine teeth,

your cut-cut words,

slash and tear at me,

grind me down

and

leave me

scattered

on

the

ground.

I was always so afraid of death

but

now

I will die with the vision of your Tyrian eyes

flaying

the

redundant

crinkled skin

of

my

quailing,

….

of

my

sacrificial

dread.

An archangel carrying the flaming sword of my rendition,

your words,

terrible, brave and fierce,

like

…..

immortality.

My body part exists for this:

to atone,

that you might

cut,

eat,

kiss

and kill,

kill

and kiss,

consume

….

bring me back to life

if that should be your wish.

Your words roar into me and I am no longer afraid of death.

All that is

….

is

light.

Enough.

At-one

…..

for with words alone you inter me in your violet sky,

endlessly

…….

unearthed.