Sunday, November 14, 2010



If I were not
not here, not me
not hungry, not cold not dismantled
defective, diminished not
a cipher in endless columns of living integers,
I wouldn’t need this blanket womb, this soul
dustcover, this tented mask that makes me
formless, this my solitary success 
to strip myself of
that self that can feel
at all,

that subtracts my presence
and keeps away
something some fear, some knowledge
some sign that those who won’t look
now can’t see
how much I need them
not to turn away their eyes.

November 2010

Written for One Shoot Sunday 11/14/10  at One Stop Poetry


Photo Credit



  1. I wouldn’t need this blanket womb...this expresses so well i think the core of the feeling..and we should stop to turn away..not always easy though..deep, heart-touching words in your poem..

  2. mmm....not turn away...the invisible people in plain sight...

  3. the blinded mind...
    we all need grace
    of the amazing kind

  4. I always think the fear of not looking is from the fear of seeing themselves.

    Beautifully written.

  5. Love the idea of all 'not turning away' from those in plain sight... if only we could lend the hand, rather than turn away.

  6. Thanks all. I find the sign behind the figure supremely ironic; an ad for a pricey perfume that translates the Air of the Times...

  7. very powerfully expressed ~ I too loved the 'dustcover' ~ covering and becoming that which is 'formless' ~ hidden ~ away ~ from sight ~ unwanted ~ no use for ~ almost want to lift the edge of that dustcover ~ gently ~ but don't want to fright or cause fear ~ but a strong urge to soothe ~

  8. This is really strong. There are days when all we want is that blanket womb. Good use of metaphor, hedgewitch.

  9. As much as i was caught up in description of the homeless in the first verse, the second one touched me deep ! well crafted !

  10. nicely crafted! and i appreciate this line:
    'a cipher in endless columns of living integers'

    this is a great piece.


"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats

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