In this pressing heat
I notice each creak
Of stretching and settling
In the walls where I keep
Myself and my stuff
Which are silent enough
To help me observe
Noises often unheard
Do they portend collapse
Or simple sighing, perhaps
Subtle movement of moments
Summer lumbering past
–April Resnick
Red House by Mike Rooney
I was formed in it
Forced from it into life
Grew up in it, on it, near it
Curious about its creatures
Bobbing, and carried by its currents
Full and fizzing sound that echoes in my ears
Filled then utterly emptied, solvent
I am drawn back to it in any form
When life on land is locked
I find my origins there
And nothing else
–April Resnick
Underwater painting by Eric Zener
Do not be concerned about me,
I have found peace with my humanity.
Stay silent too long,
And shame simply lives on,
So I face it, speak it religiously.
I do not expect not to struggle,
I do not run from the days that are muddled.
I live quite well in my skin,
Write it all down and then,
With any luck remove some shame for others.
My peace does not mean not reacting,
Nor should it look like detaching.
It means accepting the form,
Of each unique moment born,
Still, sacred space left to feel anger, injustice, and passion.
— April Resnick
Blood Room by Ryohei Hase
This one is for my “Temp Mom,” as I used to call her. Inspired by a conversation we had about having peace amidst the struggle of being human. The coexistence of both pain and peace is indeed possible, preferable even, and can be equally well attained while walking very different paths.
My stillness does not stop the pull,
But it reveals it all to me.
My silence does not negate the noise,
Sounds find my ear incessantly.
My breath does not transcend my form,
It whispers, “temporary.”
My concentration does not mask my mind,
I will choose life over lobotomy.
— April Resnick
Think About It by Amber Ozols
I am melting
My hands have dissolved
Only heavy wrists remain
The sinew and bone mix
With fleshy thick thighs
To create a lump
Of melded me
I cannot tell where
One appendage ends
Or the other begins
I lean towards the fusion
Wanting to be pulled
Completely into a gooey blob
Liquified
Until nothing is left
But stuff, and steam rising
My bitchy black hat alone and pointing
— April Resnick
The moments after it is done,
I am spent and satisfied,
The wider world makes at last,
All is quiet, I am high.
I have emptied out the bottle,
Of the stuff that clouds my mind,
Relieved to have not one drop left,
Spilled on the page I leave behind.
Soon enough it fills back up,
That glass of poisoned brine,
I partake to stop the shakes,
These are the reasons why I write.
— by April Resnick
What are you trying to sell me?
A grill, or a sofa, or drink
A red, white, and blue ideology
That ignores human lives on the brink
An article of faith wrapped in dogma
Tied with a star-spangled bow
A car on a lot, an appliance
Supposed to help me feel part of the show
I sit here conflicted as one who has served
And one who has questioned it all
I do not fit in to your nice little box
That’s been purposely fashioned too small
— April Resnick
I wrote this last year and have reposted for today.
Wherever you might find yourself
Stop, be quiet and still, grow roots of attention
Not about you or around you, but in you and through you
There too you will find your breathing
Take to heart the long and the short of it
For it will surely come and go, your life in this motion
Use this moment to inhabit your skin, do not abandon it
There too you will find your body, living
Investigate the traces of your own thriving
Prickling and softening, life as it moves you
Feel your desires warm, bubbling, hotly compelling, then cooling
There too you will find your self, reacting
Listen as your mind speaks to you
Be thankful you have this chance to notice the nuance
Stay with it, watch it work, learn your machinations
There too you will find freedom with your thinking
Watch, if you will, the waxing and waning
See the creation and disintegration of each minute
Be a witness to what has passed within and without you
There too you will find intimacy with being
— by April Resnick
Figure Sitting on Boat In Desert, by Euan MacLeod
This poem was inspired by my understanding of, and practice with, the Anapanasati Sutta.
I bleed
Pain is not a problem
Anger is not an enemy
Reality is not negativity
Truth is not pessimism
Human is not shameful
Nor is any of it permanent
I will not deny life’s contractions
Or don again those amniotic lenses
Which serve only now to cloud this growing life
Both the hoped for and the grieved
I choose to see clearly
Speak its name when it arrives
And then live the life I birth
And hold the whole of it
Before it leaves
I choose the autobiography of me
Over the fiction of expectation
Life bleeds
— by me, April Resnick
Through Rose Colored Glasses by Will Crane
— by me, April Resnick
Backyard Paradise by M. G. Gerlach
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