WILD THOUGHTS BY STACEY ZANT
I Feel a Poem Coming On Because words flow in my blood And this class is poetry, not prose. So I can line break Where I Want And make stanzas Not paragraphs Because writing is all I’ve ever known, All I’ve ever been good at And I write daily Almost as if to stay alive Because the Muse, Whoever she is, Lays about with my brain Giving birth to character After character After character And where else will they go But to the page? Because demons tap at my skull From the inside, giggling, “We’ve made the angels cry Again” And I must complain So why not a poem? Because the Muse, She has friends everywhere. Little Inspiration, let’s say Fairies, Hiding in every place and thing and spoken word Waiting to pop out with new ideas And to laugh as I grumble, Pulling out my pen, “But I’m in Spanish class now”
“But I’m on my way to the dentist now” “But I’m sick, I can’t even lift my fingers now” “But I’m on a date, and I’m falling in love with him now” Because the muse is a jealous mistress. Because my head is full and buzzing. Because I am a writer to the bones.
I’ll Be With thanks to Anna Akhmatova When, in the night, I wait for her, impatient, Drumming fingers and fidgeting pencils, I think of being a writer. She is sometimes slow in coming, Slow in painting pictures in my head, Slow in granting words and giving phrases Sometimes she does come, and we dance ideas And I become a writer. Frequently though, she’s had other plans And my white pages sit untouched, My keys don’t click, my pen doesn’t scrawl, And I moan and groan and pull my hair Just wanting to be a writer. I miss her when she’s gone away Off to whisper in someone else’s ear. It’s lonely when my head is quiet And empty of plots and prose, For the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do Is to say that I am a writer.
The Third Place I Lived Our snug apartment was small, only two bedrooms. My brother and I shared a bunk bed in second room, and it was almost always a complete mess, booby trapped with clothes dirty and clean and toys of all shapes and hazards. Our little plastic picnic table in the middle was usually barely visible, and the two small closets were erupting. Cleaning the place was a day long job, but somehow in its persistent chaos the little room was cozy. I remember sitting at our dining room table for dinner or, more often, in front of the TV, my brother and I on the floor in front of our little red coffee table. I remember the skinny Christmas tree by the window, the one we still use in our townhouse these days, and I remember wondering how Santa was going to get into a place that didn’t have a fireplace. Mother reassured me that he would find a way, and sure enough, there were always unwrapped presents from the jolly red man. I remember sneaking episodes of Invader Zim, and the way that my brother and I would utter “Uuuuuuuuuuuhm” any time one of us was deliberately misbehaving out of sight of our parents. I remember our very narrow kitchen and the little fish tank we kept with a small frog and a few snails and a beta fish. I remember holding up a mirror to the beta fish and oohing and ahing at how it puffed up in defense, not recognizing its own reflection. I remember catching garter snakes in the ditch out back, and dumpster diving for rare treasures, my brother wearing his crooked-toothed grin. I remember the pleasant older woman who lived nearby, and I remember the day she gave me a small stuffed husky dog, another childhood treasure I still have. I remember nights my father would stand by our bunk bed with his guitar and sing us to sleep. I remember curling up with movies on the couch with my mother. I remember lessons from my father, such as about exerting strength on an object in frustration, and breaking the object as a result. It’s a lesson that I remember when I break something that way, like when in high school, angry about something I don’t remember anymore, I kicked the wall of the bathroom and dented the drywall as a result. When I was too scared to fall asleep, my father would remind us that we could distract ourselves with other things, and I remember those lessons now when my hectic college schedule keeps me up. I try instead to think about the coming holidays, or the man I love, or how nice it will be when I will be able to see my family frequently again. I remember the simplicity of being a child. I miss the coziness of having my family close to me, and spending my days playing make-believe. I still do the latter, burying myself in the stories I’m creating, and yet there is a pressure behind it now that I am thinking about supporting myself. But I can think of I’ve grown, and watched my family grow around me. That little apartment is a place of fond memories that I can visit to remind myself how far I’ve come, and where I began, of how even in small moments, in the memories of driving a little remote control car around the living room, I was given something special by the couple who brought me into the world.
Daddy, I Can Ride a Two-Wheeler! It’s my first ride with him And I’m so happy. Shall we circle the reservoir? He asks, and it looks so much smaller, From back here. It takes us hours, And my legs grow so tired. The handles of my too-small bike Meet my knee pads with a thunk With each push of the pedals. My head swims But we can’t turn back, And I won’t quit. We’ll beat this thing. I discovered so much of the world As we pedaled behind suburbs, Through woods, over stretches of Brown gravel and yellow weeds. The sky slowly drained Of spring blue giving way To thickening grey dusk. And it is just us on The windy stretches
Fiction Writer’s Mind Chaotic thoughts Muddle my focus as With worlds far away Distract me from real problems, Like homework, and chores. My fantasy lands, Rampage in my mind Daydream ideas keep me safe, Keep me sane Even as crazy as they are.
The Solace Playing Brings Me The instrument is nestled to my body, The position easy and Almost sensually familiar The rich red wood Is smooth and polished. My green hunk of sap makes Puffs of white as I pass it over Tightened tendrils of horsehair. The pegs are fixed, holding Silver-colored strings in place. Sound thrums visibly through the wires With each stroke of the bow. The pinch of the strings under my fingertips On the smooth brown wood Of the neck is comforting. The tones are by my ear, Whispering to me even as they Reverberate in our room. My bow is cheap But the notes are good And clean. He sings for me, My cello, songs we learned together
I Carry the Weight of Knowing “Don’t think about purple elephants.” My father would tell us when we were scared of something at night. “Now, what are you thinking about?” “Purple elephants,” I’d say. “Cowboys,” my brother would say. He had a wild imagination. He wanted to be anything, everything. He was always playing, acting out intense battles with his monkeys, big scenes of action. He always spoke aloud, and would do sound effects like in the old Batman show, the one with Adam West. Pow bif boom. I didn’t play like that. All my noises and dialogue were in my head, thinking what my toys would say while I moved them around with my hands. He always stuck the arms of his ken dolls out in front of them, like zombies. I never understood why, but it made sense to him. He wasn’t self conscious about his imagination the way I was. I still am. I get nervous when the man I love asks me to tell him about a story I’m writing. Maybe because it’s the only thing I think I’m good at, and what if he doesn’t like it? My brother will tell him about his stories without hesitation, will even volunteer it. Some people think he writes to be like his sis. I think he writes because his sis showed him a way to exercise his amazing imagination. He’s dreamed about being just about every profession that’s out there. He expects so much from life, hopes for so much. He talks about what kind of cars he wants not knowing he’ll never drive. He talks about what he’ll teach his kids, not knowing ninety some percent of kids with Down ’s syndrome are born sterile. He’s blissful in his ignorance. Happy with the dreams. He’s never lamented his limitation. He loves his parents and aunt and uncle and sis and her friends and the man she loves. He loves learning to cook, spending his days working a little and playing games and learning a little bit more.
Letter to Rollin, Who Has Never Let Down’s Syndrome Win: Because My Brother Has Made Me a Better Person There is a picture of you holding me, When you were small and I was smaller, An image that warms my rain-soaked bones. We have not always gotten along, And I know that at times I was terrible. But vicious fights fall away to the Games of pretend and the silliness and the laughter. You are in every mention of monkeys Every plate of pasta Every movie that I know you would love. I don’t know what I would be like Without having known you. Would I appreciate gifts life gives? Would I understand love as I do? Cloudy mysteries of life have been cleared By your bright crooked-toothed smile: Happiness is important, Even under clouds. You know a level of love Beyond that which a ‘normal’ person could accomplish. Rarely life forms diamonds. I guess it takes the right amount of pressure, And character building heat. You were dealt a bad hand And I wish to god that I could change that. And I’m told, “you’re better having known him” Would I be a bitch If you were different? But at what cost to you am I not? What would it look like If you could leave the nest, Go to college, Move far away? Would we be so close? Would you still be happy? I hate what life has done to you But you love each day more than Fire loves air,
And you burn brighter. And touch every life you meet, As though your love is spores Of a sweet, color-rich flower. You’ve dreamed of being anything, everything. Racecar driver, cowboy, boxer, writer-like sis, Engineer, doctor, actor, millionaire. Your appreciation for the potential in the world Reminds the heart how to be a child. I don’t know how you do what you do, How you bring such a light Knowing that I am not capable Of al that you are. And I am grateful And I will always remain Your ever devoted sister.
A Love Story Poem The small house was dark and still. Music throbbed through the air. Twin girls slept peacefully in little matching beds. The stadium was thick with cheering and cigarette smoke. Their mother peeked in on them, and she smiled. She couldn’t hear herself think, and she liked that. Her joy, her gift, her little girls. She danced and laughed and sang along She gently touched their honey blonde hair, brushed it off soft cheeks. To familiar songs she loved, and noticed him, One shifted in her sleep, and let out a little sigh as she settled again. Smiling at her, watching in a friendly way. Mother thanked her god for her perfect reasons to live. She could only offer a bashful wave. She crept back out, tip-toeing around toys. She continued to dance, he continued to watch, entranced Still smiling, she moved through the silent, familiar hall. Finally, he moved to her and took her hand, smiling bashfully. Her own soft bed still smelled of her late husband, a comfort in the quiet dark. She smiled too, and laced her fingers with his, as music roared through the stadium.
One Sentence Poem If it carries on for long enough, Spilling forth from fingers, from heart, Past the edges where we bring our fears, Beyond to where the world waits; If it carries on even though I am Terrified, because I can’t look my own life in the eye, There might be something waiting Something I have never dreamed of But have always wanted – Not meaning, nor clarity Not truth or absolution, But something…
Ugly Lips, Filthy Tongue Fuck you And your mouth And the things it says. Fuck your bitter tongue, The words that taste like vomit When they spew from you. I hate you for every harsh word, Every stupid phrase, Every hurtful snap. Your mouth is full of poison. Fuck you too For the times you wouldn’t speak, When no words came to rescue Someone who needed them. For not knowing how to comfort Or how to protect. How could you be so silent So fucking still When the right words Would have done so much? How can one person Be so verbally violent And so stubbornly wordless? How do you manage To never say the right thing? I won’t cry over you When your tongue is cold. When it can’t move when it shouldn’t Or be still when it should. Fuck you And your mouth.
Answers to a Loneliness Questionnaire Not alone, but lonely Stretched like fresh snow But grey like ashen skin Soft shadows from dim light Loneliness lurks Angry eyes, like red lights Slither over cold concrete Staring like beasts Always toward where they have been Nostalgic loneliness Scarred from years of use Discolored, faded Punctured, scratched, prodded With noticeable scars
Spirituality The self seeks it’s maker, flowers in his presence. He who had the power to create Such a complex self and put it Into the blood and bone and skin That carries it. Accept the dark corners that are always there Without going to hide in them-Remember the beating of your heart.
To Everyone I Owe Apologies I’m sorry For being so far away, Missing Thanksgiving and birthdays. For being so forgetful and careless. For being lazy, preferring to sit with a movie Rather than go on adventuresLike playing with the unguarded table of top hats. For being timid. For having a temper. For neglecting simple chores, The dishes, the vacuum, the laundry. For being so picky, and having weird routines and rituals Preferring not to experiment with the recipe, And taking so long to get ready in the morning For spending your money, and still asking for more. For saying the wrong things, or For staying quiet. For being stubborn, and refusing to ask for help. For giving into temptation Like the couch, junk food, cigarettes. For being so hard on myself, For apologizing so much. I’m not sorry, never will be, That you are my family. For loving you, believing in you, As you love and believe in me.
To Give Thanks For the parents I was given to And who gave life to me Who spoiled and taught me And kept me safe and gave guidance For the older brother Who has made my life so rich Who has shared make believe and giggles with me For the women who opened their hearts to me Who have stood by my side Through all happiness and all pain Who gave me a shoulder to cry on And who celebrated with me For the man I love Whose strong arms are always open to comfort To hold me, save me Who has given me such happiness For the support I’m showered with From all sides For the encouragement I’ve been given At every turn Even when it’s hard to believe in myself
A Blessing Though demons may surround you And fire may lick at your feet, Though pain may tear at your sanity, I pray you know of the angels White wings crisp, Rising tall and mighty. They fight back the evil which besets you. They know the crooked claws that rip at you And crush them for to save you. Fear not the eyes that watch you, Though you may feel their hungry gazes. Have faith in the warriors that fight for your sake, Take refuge under wings soft, Keep strong, strong to join them in your battle.
About the Author Stacey Zant was born in Maryland, raised in Colorado, and is currently schooling in Washington. She has been living out of suitcases and writing out of dorm rooms, but is looking forward to settling back in Colorado with the coming completion of her final year of college. She generally writes fiction, but decided to explore the craft of poetry that many of her characters employ. This is her first collection of poetry.