Lucy McCririck + Niki Andrikopolou

The Room

Monday, April 27th, 2009

I

I told myself I wouldn’t write again
on these solitary white pages.
I thought I’d whittle away the time alone,
bored with the same clothes,
same eyes, same torments.

Every time white birds filled my mind,
whitewash would fall from the ceiling,
cover me
and frighten them away.

In that corner I would find a corpse
telling stories:

‘For a girl the moon would burst
into tears
and a flower would play briefly
in the glassy fog.’

The forceps of time –
a small god and the elusive fetish of love –
would tighten my heart.

My good people,
we are all the same body,
indivisible.

Hear me and remember.

As I was getting up to anticipate you,
to grab on to you
and like a mad wild beast,
enjoy happiness;

Neither snakes, nor predators,
sucked so much blood.

There, where the great shade lurked,
our souls weakened,
growled.

Why did you give me such dirty clothes to wear?

I won’t make your speeches.
I won’t stand on a podium.
I won’t.

Flow bitter, indignant tears,
become song, life.

Caress us: the hollowed out,
the so, oh so rainy.
And shout. Shout!

‘Your every external covering is needless.
Offer just a little opening in the heart
to pour out the marrow of love.’

Get out and leave me in my room.
You have made me a coward.


II

I am lying down,
my beloved next to me.
The bed has legs
and begins to walk the street.

The ride is magic.
We laugh
and slide, ecstatic.

Around there are people,
they look us straight in the eye.

Above hangs a transparent dome,
no-one can touch us.

We are protected,
or so I think.

I want to prove it,
stretch out my hand,
touch the sky,
proud of my confidence.

Then my hand bends,
hurts,
is crushed.

Why does my blue sky drip
with red?

Where does my faith dwell
and those painted sacred faces on the dome?

There is no dome.

I pass out.

With open eyes,
handless.

The people reach us,
the people surround us.

The beloved takes his body
and covers me.

Everything becomes one
in a thunderclap.

And the sky falls
hot,
heavy.

It flattens us.

A unified layer of skin
makes us,
stirs blood
and light from the spirits.

Fertile soil
to make the earth
bloom again.

III

Like every morning,
I wake and a drop of guilt
weighs on my forehead.

Like every morning,
I must lower my soul
from the feather bed
and raise it on its two feet.

Dawn stings me
through a crack
in the curtain,
hits once on my head,
once on the crack
and then my head
hits the crack
once, twice
and my soul refracts
with the dawn
on the glass.

Like every morning
I begin to be frightened;
perhaps I am the ghost
who waves from the window.

IV

Today seems
like a new day.

Lost within our preconceptions
and in favor of our memories

we shall slap Pain
in his face,

wearing fingers
of numbness.

Will an action ever have less meaning?
Filled with hope and nothingness…

In a while, Remorse will arrive to exchange
those chains on our feet,
for new ones.

Pulling our ears
down to the ground

he will whisper:

‘Your dead things live longer than your living.’

Then we’ll stand up,
kneeling down,
empty this room’s challenge at once.

Forming a circle
of belief,
we will celebrate our rage

beyond this room
beyond this town
beyond the air

puffing small, rounded prayers
towards our black or white lives.

To anyone

Sunday, February 22nd, 2009

To Anyone

I send you a handful of silence,

fitted firmly in my palm–

it’s the kind of silence that falls

just before a thunderclap.

I send you the shattered voices of wind

swishing, crying out –

it’s the suffering of listening alone

to this wistful, freezing sound.

Now that clamoring storms circle the world,

your love is the making of a hard day

to hold on to.

While you pick up the pieces of my tiny hope,

while you stick your sacred glow on my skin,

while your energy travels over all body-maps,

while the air half-sweetly chokes us,

and while your eyes appear so hermetically shut –

it’s inside that they open bright.

I send you a letter of wasted words,

but no-one can seal my bare feeling of love –

it is already lost inside the finite edge of my flesh

away from space, time and cruel emptiness -

and it will flower again in my soul,

it will soon be a hale season.

Now that clamoring storms circle the world,

your love is the making of a hard day

to hold on to.

On your long-going road,

I wish — all divine hands

could softly urge you.