Unknown No More

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!

-Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

 When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!

She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways, William Wordsworth

This poem has stayed with me ever since I studied it at school a few years ago, haunted me even, probably because I identified so much with “Lucy”. That scared me. I’ve taught myself to compress my presence into the least inoffensive, bite-size portions. Even when my attempts at this are not successful, I’ve had people who were more than willing to help me accomplish this feat, glorying in  my stunted self-perception so they could  attempt to shine.

 

The Lucy act is officially over. Please take your trash with you and head for the exit.

 

Exit stage permanently, eternally.

 

Compressing, and moulding, and folding, and hiding; frankly it was getting a little too cramped in here. Time to stretch.

 

 

Skin on Skin on Skin

The deepest ebony of piano keys in a smoky jazz club

The fieriest caramel sizzling over a flame

The richest ochre, perfectly matte like clay in a potter’s rugged hand

The sweetest milk chocolate adorned in ribbons and pink paper

The warmest red wood scarred by nails and hammers, and pocketknives carving;

“So and so forever”

The lightest whipped cream, fluffy and inviting resting atop succulent strawberries

What is there not to love?