Go Away, Online Stalker

Another sestina for the dVerse poetry form challenge.

Back story: I recently started using Instagram and already am targeted – just as the facebook stalkers seem to have finally given up. Boring!

Also sharing this with Poets United's Poetry Pantry #491

Go Away, Online Stalker

Go away, stalker, don’t

pursue me on facebook, or

follow me on Instagram. I

don’t trust you. I’ve seen

your kind before. I can tell

by the way you praise my smile.

I exercise that lovely smile

wryly, when I see you. Don’t

for a moment think I can’t tell

you plan to exhibit delight, even awe,

at having suddenly seen

your new dream; you’ll swear it’s I.

You're even a bit amusing, thinking I

would favour you with a smile.

I know you have seen

that I’m an elderly widow. Don’t

bother, pal, I’m not that lonely. Or

you’re really a robot. I can tell.

You’re fronting a Russian crim? Do tell.

But you won’t of course. Even I

know that much. So take your oar

out of this boat; don’t try to smile 

as you fall overboard, and don’t

bother swimming back to this scene,

using some other false name. I’ve seen

what you are, and I’ll tell

the rest of the world too, don’t

think I won’t. That’s after I

block you and your so-reliable smile.

I mean it, there’s no either-or.

The funny part of all this, or

you might say ironic – having seen

your fake photo, which makes me smile

(not in a kind way) – truth to tell,

even if you were real, you’re not who I

would go for, ever. I simply don’t

fancy the likes of you, nor could you tell

me anything persuasive. I’ve seen, and my eye 

rejects both lying smile and the reality. Just don’t!

My Friend the Thinker

The latest form challenge at dVerse is the sestina 
(based on a particular sequence of line endings over six six-line verses.) 

The back story is part of the inner journey of a close friend.

Also linking to the final Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

My Friend the Thinker

She spent a long time seeking God,

reaching out and listening,

wanting to find out for herself

just who and what God is.

Would He turn out to be evil?

Or is He truly Love? Is He Life?

She was turned away from her daily life

(the one she’d had) by illness – so, lots of time for God.

What do you do if you think God might be evil?

I guess you do some very serious listening.

After all, you wanted to know what really is.

You asked Him to acquaint you with Himself.

What if you find that your own and every other self

is not in fact having a separate life –

although then again, at the same time each one is –

but is a tiny part of God, created from God?

Would it drive you mad? Would you stop listening?

How would you feel to be made from a part of Evil?

In the end, she understood He is not evil;

or anyway not solely so. He is totality itself –

Universality, which contains it All. Are you listening? 

God is, is, IS Life! the absolute everything of Life. 

Some bits we call evil must be contained in God, 

who encompasses whatever is. 

So which bit of God are you? The question is 

(this woman examined herself) are you a bit that is evil?

After doing her best to perceive the reality of God,

and conversing with Him at length, she also knew herself.

She could choose! And why choose Evil over Life? 

‘I’m not mad!’ she said, to whoever was listening. 

God can hear, but why should He need to be listening? 

He already knows who she is. 

And loves her, and wants her to be forever alive. 

Which she wants for herself too; she isn’t here to be evil. 

And so she is healing herself and evolving herself 

and looking after the planet, and loving God. 

No, I’m not her. But I’m listening. I know she’s not evil.

I know who she is. She is being her truest self.

She will have eternal life, thanks be to God.

Negative Criticism [Prose]

Magaly asks us for a short article, 369 or fewer words, on this subject for her Moonlight Musings: the Interactive Edition, #1 at Poets United. Here is mine (369 words without title):

Negative Criticism

(a) It has its place.  
(b) It comes in various kinds.

Professional

If someone says to me, ‘This line of your poem isn’t working,’ is that negative criticism? No, not to me. (It's useful feedback.) If I‘m told my writing is banal, mediocre, boring, yes that is – but might also be true. In which case I could choose to benefit from it and lift my game … oh all right, AFTER the first flash of indignation. [No-one ever has said that to my face; but now you know my worst fears for my work.]

Personal

Then there’s the kind which is meant to hurt or even destroy.

Some is ’heat of the moment’: outrageous insults soon regretted. These usually come from our nearest and dearest! They’re hard to overlook, but if we value the relationships we must try.

Then there’s gossip and slander, said behind your back. Usually it reaches your ears somehow. 

Responses

1. Dignified

As well as a poet, I’m a Reiki Master. You’d think a system of Divine Healing, channelled through highly trained individuals required to demonstrate the greatest integrity, would be free of back-stabbing and nastiness, but that’s not always so. People can persuade themselves of their own righteousness. 

I once got caught up in some local ‘Reiki wars’ even though I took no direct part in them. I was the subject of malicious rumours. (My Reiki wasn’t as good as X’s, my training was inferior, my ability questionable, my character suspect.)  

My professional history is on public record, but few people investigated it. Defending myself by counter-claims and accusations might keep matters in the forefront of people’s minds. What could I do? 

This – withdraw from the fray, say nothing no matter how provoked, and stay in my own integrity. (Over time, people can see who you are.)

That furore was long ago now, and those other Reiki Masters didn’t last in this area. There was no need for me to do anything but wait it out.

2. Annihilating

When I feel remarks are necessary, I like to keep them oblique, naming no names – yet wickedly pointed. In writing, of course.

I relish my favourite bumper sticker:

~ WRITERS have the last word ~

Something To Do While Watching the News

Something To Do While Watching the News

I think, when we see

the news on TV, 

it’s easy to go

into horror and woe.

But there is danger

adding anger to anger,

letting fear and hate

proliferate.

Remember – we increase

both Love and Peace

in the Universe,

not by making things worse

but rather by being

those qualities: seeing,

in our minds eye, how

they fill us – and now

projecting them as light

in intentional flight

to the war-torn places,

the tormented faces.

Excuse if I preach.

I do think that each

ray from each soul

adds to the whole –

perhaps infinitesimally,

yet surely exponentially?

I can only start with me.

So can you. Oh, may it be!

I was recently given a challenge to write truthfully, without 'artistic imagination', while using rhyme. Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ Televised finally gave me an occasion to try it.

I Don't Sew [Prose]

I Don’t Sew

It didn’t come naturally. Girls at my High School had to learn it (and cooking) in first year; boys woodwork. Aptitude was not a criterion. 

My stitches were large, uneven, crooked, sometimes stained (inky fingers).

I was always in trouble, having to unpick and do things over. It took ages of homework time. My parents were concerned; it took time from academic studies.

Mum sat down with me one night, said, ‘Watch me,’ and very slowly did the first four stitches of my homework hem on a square of cotton meant for a handkerchief. I had brought the same thing home night after night to unpick and repeat. 

She explained how she inserted the needle close to the edge of the hem, made the stitch tiny, kept them the same distance apart, slanted them in the same direction. I went all the rest of the way along the hem, using her first four as a guide. It was painstakingly slow.

Next day, I showed the sewing teacher.  

‘YOU did this all by yourself?’

‘Mummy helped me,’ I admitted. She erupted, holding up my work.

‘ “Mummy helped me”! Mummy did it! You cheated.’ She took scissors and ripped the threads. ‘Bring it back tomorrow as YOUR work. Go and stand in the corner the rest of the lesson.’

My parents, agog to hear how my beautiful stitches had been received, were furious. 

‘I did four! She worked so hard!’

Did they make a complaint? The teacher ignored me thereafter. Next year I dropped Domestic Science, no longer compulsory.

When my own kids were little I bought a sewing machine. I made clothes for them, their Dad, myself. But the imperfections looked large; I gave up. Later I hand-sewed a caftan for myself and enjoyed the meditative, slow stitching. But it took time away from writing: I gave up again. 

No, I don’t sew.

Written for Poets United's 'Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero: a Pantry of Prose' #6 ~ Stitches. This is the exact word limit of 313 words (without title).