Hey friend,
Welcome to my new mini-series, The Remix, where I’m pulling poems from across Part-Time Poets and The Snuggle into collections of themes. I’ve realised that a lot of my poetry has circled around core themes the last few years, which was a surprise to me. The first one was The Ecclesiastes Remix. This one is about anger, and its friends envy and discontent.
What Discontent Says, is ironically, already a remix. What Children Say by Kate Baer is one of my favourite poems of all time. I read The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment by a Puritan guy called Jeremiah Burroughs. His chapter on Excuses of a Discontent Heart made me laugh because it sounded a lot like What Children Say. So I hope you enjoy the Baer feat. Burroughs remix.
Photo by Simran Sood on Unsplash
Feed the Troll
Drip drip drip, I feed my
algorithm full of my deceit.
Drip, drip, drip, I feed my
algorithm: envy on repeat.
I shoot my vein
until it bursts green,
sweep my mane
of algae-hued hair
to hide my shame:
green-glittered eyes.
I shift the blame
to the little squares.
Drip drip drip, I feed my
algorithm full of my deceit.
Drip, drip, drip, I feed my
algorithm: envy on repeat.
First published on The Sunday Morning Snuggle, Collection No. 11 (Feed the Troll)
What Discontent Says
I can’t bear this, I won’t bear this,
I’d never murmur in a million years.
I’m not grumbling but I don’t have
what she has. I wouldn’t grumble if
I could see God’s plan. They are
unreasonable. I never looked
for this. I never thought it would
happen to me. You don’t know
how I feel. I will never move up
off this floor. You couldn’t be
content if this happened to you.
Well, it’s worse than your problem.
I’d be content if it was any other
problem. God has left me. I am no
help to anyone now. I worked hard
and it’s gone. Don’t be angry.
Don’t give me advice. Don’t start
singing. Don’t leave me all alone.
Actually, I’m not alone. He was
always here. He’s more beautiful
than I thought. He didn’t deserve
his suffering. He’s so kind to me.
I didn’t realise I hurt him so. All
I deserve is death. I can’t believe
his mercy. Maybe I can bear it.
First published on The Sunday Morning Snuggle, Collection No. 3 (What Discontent Says)
Nice Girls Don’t Get Angry
Anger stabs me above my eye, but I don’t
listen because nice girls don’t get angry.
Anger aches and shakes my jaw, but I don’t
listen because nice girls don’t get angry.
Anger severs the connection between my brain
and my words. I can’t talk, but I don’t listen
because nice girls don’t get angry.
Anger seeps into my neck, shoulders, tense,
tightening, curling, screaming. But I don’t listen
because nice girls don’t get angry.
Anger tries again, searing a highway
down my chest. But I don’t listen,
because nice girls don’t get angry.
Anger descends to my stomach, a roiling,
boiling, nauseous toiling, but I don’t listen
because nice girls don’t get angry.
I’m fine. I’m just ignoring my friend who tells
me this is not okay. I can’t open the door,
so I bar it with my body, sob while she kicks
and screams, “Don’t do this!” on the other side
because all I want is for you to think I’m nice.
Published in Part Time Poets book: In Which I Try to Save the World
A Prayer for the Overstimulated and Touched Out
LORD, I want to answer all queries
with a scream. The children and I
are one sweaty contort: touching,
tapping, whining, screaming.
The phone rings, it pings,
the woman talking lies things
like, “I don’t know why he can’t
see his kids,” the dinner burns,
My neighbour bangs the windows,
the doors, she yells for me.
The children grab at me.
All my learning is for nothing
I am the last dangling thread of a tooth
I am a sole worn away at the toe.
Why try to be patient when
my anger, hidden for so long
under, no worries and yes,
I can and I’ve got this
threatens
to
engulf
me I growl, I jump out of my skin.
Don’t touch me, you can’t come in.
I can’t take it anymore,
I roar.
Who is sufficient for this?
Who can carry this?
I hate this, LORD.
I don’t want to be the angry one,
the overwhelmed one,
the overstimulated one.
I thought I was calm.
I’m sorry for disregarding my limits.
I’m sorry I disregard rest.
Give me your peace. Help me
to tend what you’ve given, gently
and patiently, to go to bed early,
and when I’ve failed, again,
to apologise quickly and truly.
O LORD, you sustain stars and nebulae,
atoms and atmospheres. Sustain me, I pray.
Published on Part Time Poets, Issue 22
In a World Where You Can Be Anything, Be Weak
Feel frailty throbbing
through your fingers,
touch your translucent
skin, wink at the wrinkles
whispering around your smile.
Lie down your limp limbs,
cry into your cup of tea,
treat yourself gently,
like someone you love.
Say, this is hard, say,
I am tired, say, thank you
to a meal, warm cookies,
soft, folded hand-me-downs,
and someone else’s strong hands
buckling babies into car seats.
Mercy can’t seep into your skin
if there’s no cracks in the armour.
Published in Part Time Poets book - In Which I Try to Save the World
How to Feel Small
Stand in the ocean, watch
sunlight ripple and reflect
silver off the waves, wonder
how far the ripples stretch.
Realise you can’t comprehend
the size of the Indian Ocean,
the sun in the sky, or a God
without beginning or end.
Cuddle your three-year-old
to you in the waves, feel him
kick with joy, smush his face
into your neck, his heart
beating against yours.
Realise you don’t deserve
your children, you did not
make or earn them. They
are a free gift of mercy from
a God without beginning or end.
First published on The Sunday Morning Snuggle, Collection No. 5 (A Cloud Prescription)
If these resonated with you, please consider sharing with a friend 💛
Thank you for reading, friends. The next and final one is the The Fear Remix.
Thank you for pulling these into one.. because your references are like my own, all ugly and true but seeped in hope.
Reading your prayer for the overstimulated after an overstimulated meltdown. It’s like the words came from my own soul.