Linguist and Poet – Pym Schaare

the shadows beneath her shoes haunt her
and if she were alive today
she would say there is no god 
she would flat line in print 
with no comment
while she watched other wars 
brought into her lounge room
as news about setting the record straight
when it comes down to who has the biggest bomb

it was when she slept
and dreamt of shoes chasing her
that the memories laced to her ribs
made it hard for her to breathe
she knew not love or hate for them
for her to hold them close
when her heart drummed a fury
at her enemy  her opponent
it was there that the war had never ended
the damage never over

i saw a photo of her once
before it got lost
i looked hard at those dark eyes
and long hair
i took great care to follow
where the dark curl fell to one side
opposite where her hair was parted
i saw a quiet calm 
as she sat with her knees
to one side on the grass 
at the Tiergarten entrance
it made me want to dig into that look
and feel deep into her bones 
to understand the blend of my thoughts
of fear and love for her
and was i like her
i touched my hair
staring at it in the mirror
while i brought it across like hers
and saw her looking back at me  

today she is still young
she did not grow old
she died with screaming skulls telling her 
nothing was alright
it’s how she found the parameters 
to confine her pain of never trusting
it’s what held her together
not trusting in doctors was a scheme
she lived by
she knew all doctors murdered
what they were good for was not a signature
she would give
but it might cost me a life
i want to raise her above this
for my sake so i can live 

when she thinks of him
    she pictures he is perfect 
     with dark hair
         chiselled chin
           broody eyes
              accomplished expression
                  but not quite sentimental 
                     enough to reach her
 when she sees herself
    her mind scrolls through her feelings  
      and she stops to part her lips
        ever so carelessly 
          to meet his image with her new mood
            the illusion a necessity for the work 
               of a new frame 
                    an emotion she has come so far for 
                         to connect with the speech bubble
                              picture she has of him
there she tries to fill his and her mouth with words
     that might be important enough
       about something she misses    cares or needs
            from him
               something that warrants the captions
                  his mouth and hers utter
                     those of a wistful notion of loss
                        that might bring him back
                            let him reach out to her from the picture thoughts 

First, i need a straight line so get rid of tangles, roots and leaves. Watch it.

I watch the new ground stay that way. Scan the pavers, size them with my mind. Use scale and design to fit them so i don’t need to break grey.

Concrete shards will not suit my idea for safe passage under the palms where the lights do not always work.

Paths are meant for an easy footprint from outside to in. I look down. Art is somewhere in the graphic my wet footsteps make.

I know the path laid down will be squared off. I saw it marked out in orange chalk, roughed out on dark dirt. On dark soil it looks right, even on the curve around the house where the light lingers longest when it works.

I want my pavers to fit geometrically right angled at me when I walk up to them and onto them. The image conveys neat. It’s hard work to fit things onto two dimensional surfaces.
The pebbles went down manipulated around the pavers, banged into place at times. The appeal fresh. The once eyesore rogue grasses and leaves gone. And something of nature disappeared with it.

But enough as the pavers settled into darkness. Pebbles obliged, a short while only. No pleading when the ground moved, nature moved grey and charcoal river stones, pebbles. Edged pavers another dimension. 

Obtuse angles shot up overnight. It is said the thesis this will trip me by surprise… let my safety net shift….become a predatory thing to make me wiser.

her mind is an attitude 
and it shows in the pout of her pose                                  
                                 her worth a  graphic of the day
 in that moment only 
                                 her mind appears to never mind
as she searches another dark sly eyed look 
                               at nothing 
the one she has practiced insatiably 
perfected into the mirror 
now ready for the camera
with an ease as if nothing about it mattered 
                             for that look
                              a bull’s eye dart shoots back at her 
                             she gleams consumed with herself

now a brand anxiety kicks in quicker than she has time to think
it is mercurial and demands another
                             not just this one 
                             it is already her past      a life over
a reflection not solid enough 
she forgets to spend the moment she is in
pushes for another angled selfless pout
for the screen
                           this further framed self
this next life’s length a life more thoroughly gained 
                           her moment new again in this portrait   something unique
                            uploaded like the other
just a shade different 
another filter to bring the thing
                         of time forward
a thing she recognises      is cognisant 
but again the short lived tingle of satisfaction 
                      sparks addiction to become a thing from without within

and like store bought canned products
each time the lid is flicked sideways
a thing discarded just like when her face moves this way and that
                           never emotively reusable
                           the pout recyclable 
                           a commodity always in need  
it is her prayer wheel
as she syncs her lips with her mood 
of not a mood
but the same as before 
lately she rescinds asher mind does remind her 
measures that she has an attitude for more
than to resettle her smile 
                       her surplus is cut
                       her supply cycle lost 
where once minds didn’t matter
now danger exists
when self-aggrandisement realises
                    that minds do matter
                    when the poser can no longer be fooled


1. my body
     shard of glass
                      glides water
                      i feel my fingers prickle with chill

2. dive the water, change its current
     with my hands
                                  breast stroke spread fingers
                                  break through the icy wash

3. every metre counted
    one to ten, a sequence
                                      before i lift out of the water
                                       my mouth an ocean of air lingers for the sun’s warmth
                                       i breathe twice

4. i know my body has kept going 
   autonomously i glide water
                                  make for the next fifty metres 
                                   mine already marked as i slice the wet

5. it’s easy to hear people dip toes in
   and say it’s freezing
                                 stubbornly i deny it
                                 see sunlight reflect beneath me
                                 and i am more than warm or cold

6. my opus not to be divided 
   into what i can and can’t do 
                               fits me for things above and below me
                          ocean floor, a  sense multi-dimensional
                          where i neither overheat or freeze to death

7. layers of me , my mind alive on my skin
    the heater and electric blanket at home 
                        to aid my maths, predatory symbols 
                        multiplication and addition adds ten times fifty metres
                        each leg kick, arm pull through
                        i swim a gift to my body

8. before i stop                    still myself
                     slide up and out
the water like glass 
               invisible on my skin
                is the more of me






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