What is Heaven to a Shadow? by Ashley Ray Cox

What is Heaven to a Shadow?

Poems of Shadows Both Literal And Figurative

Ashley Ray Cox

What is Heaven to a Shadow?

Poems of Shadows Both Literal and Figurative

Ashley Ray Cox

First Posted December 3, 2014/12/2 Cover Art: The Martyrdom of Saint Lawrence, 1625/30 Massimo Stanzione Italian, Naples (1585-1656) Oil on canvas Displayed in the David Owsley Museum of Art Ball State University Muncie, IN Authors of section quotes wish to remain anonymous.

for everyone who made these poems possible

A Guide to the Darkness Within

From The Author Him I Just Kept Falling p. 3 The Ten Things You Taught Me and the One Thing You Didn’t p. 4 I Struggle With This Color p. 5 What Are You Smoking? p. 6 Hometown – Ode to the Man I Loved p. 7 Reese p. 8 The Dragon, The Princess, and The Prince Named Dragon p. 9 Voices In Memoriam of Rose Petals p. 15 Please Don’t Call Me a Hipster p. 16 Cornstalks and Skyscrapers p. 17 Soul and Déjà Vu p. 18 A Letter From Myself to Charlotte p. 19 An Argument About Charlotte p. 20 He Said Something About His Daughter p. 21 Echoes Gorillaz p. 25 Lyrics Say “Sometimes quiet is violent,” and I Am Inclined to Agree p. 26 The Final Thoughts of Hemingway’s Pen p. 27 Block p. 28 Shadow of the Colossus: Letters From Wander to Mono p. 29 Kingdom Hearts: Riku p. 30 I Need a New Show to Watch p. 31 Shadows as a Man Lay Dying p. 32

From the Author When I first began writing this book, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I still don’t. The first poem I wrote—with the intention of putting it into Shadow—was “The Dragon, The Princess, and The Prince Named Dragon”. Originally, it was just entitled “Dragon,” and consisted of only the section from the perspective of The Princess. I’m honestly not sure where all of it came from. I was thinking about how some of my past relationships were pretty awful, and how helpless that made me feel, and what it took for me to finally get out. I thought about the wild friends who came into my life and helped me get through. And it evolved from there into a fairytale about a dragon who saves a princess from a prince. That was all. But my editors started commenting that the piece was “dark” in some way. Dark? I thought it was happy! Somehow, that turned into me thinking about the nature of darkness and shadows, and what it means to be those things. “Shadows as a Man Lay Dying” came from that line of thinking. I was looking at paintings in a museum one day and stumbled across this violent painting of a man being burned alive. I didn’t care much for the style or theme, and tried to walk past it, but the information card beside it caught my eye. It read, “The foreshortened figure of St. Lawrence is best when viewed from a very low angle.” Well, I had to know what that was about. So I plopped right down on the floor in front of the painting, looked up, and WOW! The colors, the lighting, everything changed. The edges and corners of the painting became indescribably dark; the figures of the men seemed to morph before my eyes. Everything was dark, dark, dark. I wrote the poem sitting right there on the floor, watching the shadows swirl around me. After much prodding and begging by my editors, I decided to base the rest of my book on those two pieces. When I made up my mind to write “dark” and “shady” poetry, the floodgates

opened. I wrote a new poem every day, sometimes two, and they were all well received. I even began studying shadow puppets. It was all my friends and I talked about for months: What is a shadow? What is darkness? What does it mean to be a shadow? I began noticing shadows everywhere—not just actual shadows, but people in my own life who were shadow-like. Echoes, we decided, are also a form of shadow, and so are voices and memories. So much of my poetry came from the idea of shadows that I very quickly had more than enough for my book. Thus began the long, tedious editing process. I decided that the best poems I had written fell into three categories: poems about past relationships, poems about memories and conversations, and poems about media. It should be noted, however, that not all of these Hims, Voices, and Echoes really happened. That does not make them less true. I think the stories that tell the most truth are the ones that lie: the ones that stretch and evolve and reveal. That’s what I hope Shadow does for you.

—Ashley

Ray Cox

December 3, 2014/12 9:19 PM

Him “Don’t give me that tone. You know there are some things I’m not good with. They just happen to usually be what you need.”

I Just Kept Falling Fainting was like a fire, was an abandoned baby bird, was like breathing underwater and choking. Fainting was dancing alone at prom, was like saying goodbye, was missing you. Fainting was like when you kissed me that December night, and I asked, “Are you sure? I’m not her,” and you said, “We should stop,” and you left.

The Ten Things You Taught Me and the One Thing You Didn’t Bill Clinton impressions, bass riffs, lust, Wo ist die Toilette, Keurig brewer maintenance, Oxford commas, spaghetti recipes taking punches, smoking cigars, binge drinking, how to forgive you.

I Struggle With This Color Ocean, river, sky, blood before it surfaces, your eyes in my dreams.

What Are You Smoking? The only thing I learned from four years of Spanish was ¿Qué estás fumando? and you wouldn’t believe how that has come in handy I mean seriously ¿Qué estás fumando? who the hell do you think you are you mean nothing to me nothing shit ¿Qué estás fumando? you fucking don’t you don’t get to decide who I am or how I feel you ass ¿Qué estás fumando? you aren’t in my goddamn head you prick how dare you think otherwise ¿Qué estás fumando? when are you going to get it through your fucking head I mean ¿Qué estás fumando? what the fuck, man?

Hometown – Ode to the Man I Loved We were never at the right place at the right time, not even in our own heads. But it’s alright. You can have these streets; you can have all the Christmas lights, too. And the snow. You can have it all. I always hated this town, anyway.

Reese Little cup, I was supposed to be your auntie. That’s what He always told me. Peanut butter baby, you’re growing up. I saw your picture on Facebook yesterday. You were crying because He left during your nap. Now we both miss Him. Pieces, when you get the chance, tell your Uncle that I would have given His babies Hershey hair and Air Head eyes. I would have tried. Tell His Sweet Tart hello for me.

The Dragon, The Princess, and The Prince Named Dragon Part One: From the Dragon We live alone. We always live alone. That is how it has always been done. Why does the castle call to me? I was content to live alone. I welcomed the cold drafts. That is the way of the dragons. Why does the castle call to me? His conquests reached my cave. His men stole from me. That is when I planned revenge. Why does the castle call to me? She did not scream when I crashed. She did not flinch. That has never happened before. Why does the castle call to me? Ah, I see.

Part Two: From the Princess You were named for your father, a wise old king, but by the time you were sixteen, you had earned the name Dragon. No wings or scales, but someone wise and strong. A leader of men. A great destiny. Monstrous. I was named for a fairy my mother once knew, and I was your princess. I called you a savior, someone to love me, but we all knew; bruises and screaming are not part of a happy fairytale. The naming of dragons is an ancient ritual. I don’t know his name, but when he burst into the tower, I knew I was relieved. He is crass, wild fury, but he is warm. Maybe he’ll let me be the hero.

Part Three: From the Prince Named Dragon Oh, so I’m the bad-guy now? Fine, I’ll be the villain. You wanted a prince? I’m a prince. You wanted a man? I’m a man. Too angry? I’m a warrior. It’s what we do. Too harsh? My name is Dragon. You knew that. You want to leave me? Well. I think not. Hero? His hide is mine.

Voices “Did you hear something?”

In Memoriam of Rose Petals I am mad at what I can’t remember. Something about funerals and two old dogs that refused to stop barking no matter what an uncle shouted or swore. The smell puts a nail in a coffin I can’t remember. Something sharp in my finger makes me look down and there is red. Blood. But the rose is white like hair I can’t remember. Something sniffles beside me and I keep my head low as an aunt whispers about God’s plan. He died that day I can’t remember.

Please Don’t Call Me a Hipster Trends annoy me. Why talk about lattes and leggings and large sweaters when fall is about change? Trends are change and the absence of change. Autumn is cold darkness, red leaves, simmering bonfires. It is not a fashion. You could not fashion a beanie to resemble fall. The books you skim and the “tunes” you preach are nothing. Nothing. Nothing if you cannot smell the Autumn.

Cornstalks and Skyscrapers I

i f

g r e w u p

b u t

i n

I’ m

t h e

c o u n t r y

o n

c i t y g i r l

y o u

t h e I’ l l

a t h e a r t.

l e t y o u i n

d r i v e

b i g g e s t s e c r e t

l o o k

f a s t I

e n o u g h

k n o w:

f i r e f l i e s

c i t y

a n d

l i g h t s

e x a c t l y t h e s a m e.

Soul and Déjà Vu I do not remember the first time I succumbed to the darkness of a movie theater. I must have been a child, a well-behaved baby, or a very old woman who got lost. It is hard to tell, you see, because I have lived many lives before, and they are not clear. Sometimes I feel like I am a bird, and the scenes I glide over are nothing new to me. Where have I been before? What have I done? Is there a point to this remembering game? I think.

A Letter From Myself to Charlotte You took the silence inside of me and turned it into music, and you told me it was beautiful. I never called to explain myself. I just stopped coming to piano lessons. I don’t even know where you live anymore. They say you moved into an assisted living facility somewhere. And I heard different tales about how you are actually doing. So I stopped asking. Now I spend everyday wondering if you’re even still alive somewhere. How long you have. If I’ll ever see you again. I don’t know if you’d even remember who I am or who I was or how you used to shuffle next to my gait all the way to the door when our lessons were over each week. You even told me you loved me, once.

I’m so sorry.

An Argument About Charlotte Don’t you dare try to tell me it wasn’t my fault. We both know who held the knife to her memories and stabbed stabbed stabbed until there was nothing more. Not even my name. Or the face of the boy she spoke with in the church basement as a child, that night, while the mothers danced upstairs because the war was maybe over, and the fathers might be coming home. Her dog’s medications. The scarf she promised you for Christmas that lays crumpled at the estate sale. We both know I should have called. I could have brought her back. Beloved? Definitely. But not by any of us; the smiling ghosts she couldn’t remember.

He Said Something About His Daughter (First line provided by Kim Chinquee) It was the first coffee shop I found there, where I met a man who played guitar. He finished his set, I finished my mug, and he sat at my table. We talked for a long time, and I wish I could remember what we said, because he later handed me his watch and said keep it, I don’t need it where I’m going and he walked out the front door of the coffee shop into the road in front of a truck and died instantly.

Echoes â&#x20AC;&#x153;Music, art, cinema, photographs: all are merely echoes.â&#x20AC;?

Gorillaz Lord, hear me now. Never did no harm up on Melancholy hill, obscured as it was by great clouds. White light. Something has started today. The world is spinning too fast. I need a gun to keep myself among. I ain’t happy in these demon days. Sometimes it’s hard, all alone, little memories marching on. What are we gonna do? Do whatever it takes. The waves are rising for this time of year. Now they’re turning us into monsters. Maybe in time, you’ll want to be mine. Feel good.

Lyrics Say “Sometimes quiet is violent,” and I Am Inclined to Agree I am not your shadow. You gave me your legacy. I am not your sister’s tattoo. Memorial tattoos never stop talking. We miss you, Mike, you know? You left so many echoes.

The Final Thoughts of Hemingway’s Pen My good Sir, I find you repulsive. Your talent is mediocre at best. You cheat too much and someday the bulls you run with will run you through. That’s what I used to say to you after your nights of drinking and women. But I take it back, Ernie. Please. I didn’t want you to end like that. Why did you leave me alone?

Block (In the styling of Dorothy Parker’s “Coda”) There’s nothing I’d rather be, There’s nothing I’d rather have; This dream, this dream, this dream Was never something but mad. Oh, why did I pick this, and what is The chance of becoming the top, For the contest has already started, And my words are beginning to rot, And I’ve put too much work in this mess, And I’ve run out of things to do, So I’m thinking of giving up this stressWould you kindly tell my muse, “Fuck you,”?

Shadow of the Colossus: Letters From Wander to Mono I. Valus Today I climbed higher than I ever have before, and I did it for you.

IX. Basaran If not for its light-beams, I might have liked it. I hope to see you soon.

II. Quadratus I miss the old bulls at the farm back home. I once thought they were big.

X. Dirge Even now, at the temple, I can still see its eyes When I close mine. Red.

III. Gaius Finally, a “fair” fight. This one had a sword. He looked like a man. I cannot sleep.

XI. Celosia She it was afraid of me. Me, Mono. And it should be. I am. Who am I?

IV. Phaedra I came across a lush alcove the color of your eyes. The giant was curious of me.

XII. Pelagia Horrible blind monster. Dead. Getting harder to remember. Hair and skin changing color.

V. Avion The large bird watched me no matter where I walked. It did not attack until I did.

XIII. Phalanx Beautiful. Mono. I killed it. I killed a beautiful creature for you. I am a sinner. Mono.

VI. Barba Its beard looked like your father’s. I almost laughed when I saw it. Then I ran.

XIV. Cenobia Ran so much. Exhausted. It was just trying to protect. I hear voices all the time.

VII. Hydrus It got me, Mono. It shocked me again and again. It hurts to breathe. I see Shadows.

XV. Argus So close. Soon. Abandoned city. Everything is abandoned. I will not abandon you.

VIII. Kuromori I thought I was going to die. I almost wanted to. If it were not for you, I would have.

XVI. Malus I did it. Mono, I did it. They’re all gone. We can go home. Come back to me. Mono? No…wait…

Kingdom Hearts: Riku

Things were so much easier when our lives were wooden swords. Their yellow sphere eyes look nothing like the sunshines you drew on the corners of your papers. There are many worlds and only one sky. Sky? Where are you? White. Black. Stars in the sky. Cave drawings. I don’t know which is better anymore. Holy darkness? There is no such thing. There is nothing holy. Only darkness. Only me. I am me. I am not me. I am home, you hold a wooden sword and smile. Home.

I Need a New Show to Watch I turned into Dr. House last week. I hurt my leg in a water aerobics class and had to walk with a limp. I practiced shuffling around my room while scowling and shouting medical terms at my mirror. I peeled a banana with a couple of toothpicks and dissected it, piece by piece, without anesthesia.

Shadows as a Man Lay Dying A man lays dying before me. Framed, eternal, like an insect frozen in amber. Music in his muscles, I watch him stretch – or be stretched – up toward the heavens. The sky. What is heaven to a shadow? All eyes are drawn to the pale form: their eyes are like flames alone, searing every curve, every cry. Soon it will be nighttime and this man will fade into distant memories. This is inevitable. But the man kneeling stroking the fire, the true flames which crackle and do not sneer, will remember. He will remember. The red night. The red night like a promise. And we, shadows, will remember, too. What is heaven to a shadow?