Fourteen Dozen Roses: The World As The Jungle It Is

By Erin Robertson

I wish I could say I was closer to my grandfather, but as the years went on and his Alzheimer’s progressed, it began to get harder just to see him. We watched him suffer so his death was something of a relief. In a time of mourning, I wrote this piece:

Fourteen dozen roses,
cut clipped, and arranged,
spread throughout the pews.
paid precision and prayer
fake sympathy and stares
bore through to the soul
it’s the friends and family
that keep you sane
so dry your tears
try to smile
the coffin is closed
the sermon was said
in the line we file
morbid flags that warn our purpose
march along the silence grows,
sobs muffled out of shame.
gather under the green tent
sit upon velvet thrones of mourning
as a group,
we bow our heads
blessing for the one departed
amens in sync
good wills, remembrance, praise
i whisper goodbye
drop his favorite flower
to decorate my grandfather’s tomb.

_________________________

This next poem was written roughly about the same time. Death, and its morbidity, was frequently on my mind. I wrestled with the idea of an afterlife or the concept that something so pure can be torn into sinful shreds.

death,
it comes on tar-dipped wings
dragging down the weightless soul
perfect when?
no longer flawless
as it flies
with heavy wings
down to hell,
to meet
judgement day has long since passed
fail or pass
the side you wish

death it comes on tar-dipped wings
dragging down the weightless soul
perfect then,
no longer flawless
anguish may have plagued you then,
but now,
you can be free.
whispers of unspoken trial
jury, angels, demons
judge of neutral boundaries
find you guilty,
innocent child
whichever way
you tend to walk,
you will be happy now
life, you may have suffered
dying, you might have been in pain,
but death, Sweet, death
it always comes,
exactly when it’s supposed to come.

_________________________

At a time of peak adolescent anguish, my friend –and thereby, I– got tangled up with people who were not as they seemed to be. Often, my poems are free verse; however, I tried my hand at some resemblance of “Traditional Poetry.”

Enemy in someone you like:
Everyone wants to know
what’s behind the face you show
we all see your pride
you modestly try to hide

the smile that plays across your face
has seemed to find its place
but your moods change like a clock
the swings impossible to mock

a bipolar symptom waits to strike
find an enemy in someone you like
more outbreaks, in succession,
betray the mild marks of depression

your friendship is a weight to bear
it seems that no one wants to care…
your ‘quirks,’ they draw the curious
they come to mimic the delirious

they make a mockery of your ills
stunned by the bouquet of pills
a bipolar symptom waits to strike
find an enemy in someone you like.

_________________________

I don’t remember why I wrote it, but the first couple lines were running through my head for quite a few days, and I decided to elaborate on it in my 9th grade English class. My friend and I had been discussing the change in society and how people are satisfied being mediocre and achieving nothing. I guess I had big dreams back then, too.

my modern art wonder
of the twenty-first century
is torn straight from the pages
of a young man’s book
the whispers spoken
of wild ventures
swallowed by some
corporate gain
the mind-blowing drugs
destroy the naive
open portals onto new levels
swimming hallucinations of
teenage ideals
and the real world
collide with a splay of
colors only the
high can see
disappointments inspire
push onward or settle for less
business world stays on
the fast track for life
stuck in a job with no career
working up to work out
it’s got no end
it’s the truth that will slap
a truth we all know
the world as the jungle it is

Leaf Of A Ginkgo – Erin’s Tattoo, Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, May 2010, photo © 2010 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.

I have yet to visit my grandfather’s grave site, years after his burial. I wanted to commemorate his passing in my own way. As a horticulturist, he loved all plants, but most specifically the ginkgo for its unchanged history. Rather than ink myself with a cliché R.I.P/tombstone tattoo, I came up with the idea of a falling ginkgo leaf. Its importance would be known to very few, preserving my grandfather’s memory.

About Erin: My name is Erin Robertson and I am a graduating senior from Susquehanna Township High School. Later this year I will be attending Temple’s Honors College to pursue a Doctorate in Psychology (because I am rather ambitious). My life has been full of adventure and I have met many unusual people and experienced quite a lot for someone my age. My life, the environments I find myself in, and the people I know, have all served as inspirations for the creative outlets in my life. I focus on poetry as a big way for me to express myself and my emotions.

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Eye Of The Dragon Tattoo

Eye Of The Dragon, Lake Harriet, Minneapolis, Minnesota, July 2009, all photos © 2009-2010 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.

inky, sweatless pores,
all eyes drawn to the Dragon
keeper of the Grail;
night falls to The Hinterlands —
she is searching for herself.

-posted on red Ravine, Wednesday, January 13th, 2010

-related to posts: WRITING TOPIC – TATTOOS, Ink Illuminations, dragon haiku trilogy, Dragon Fight — June Mandalas

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Ink Illuminations

By Katherine Repka*


My boyfriend got a tattoo when we were in Florida. We were leaving Universal Studios with “his and hers” children in tow, our feet aching from a day spent zigzagging through the park to catch the best rides and avoid the longest lines. We spotted the tattoo parlor as we approached the park exit. He said we should just keep going—it was late—but I saw a flash of longing in his eyes as he spoke. I suggested we at least check it out; after all, being from an obscure Canadian town, when would we be near a Hart & Huntington again?

We trudged up the stairs like drones, the glitzy neon sign beckoning with its promise of adventure. As we flipped through endless pages of sample designs, I told him he should go ahead and get one. A tattoo he had “commissioned” years ago, in the back of a Greyhound bus, looked more like an amoeba than a peace sign, and he always talked about replacing it with a more professional image once he could afford to. As it turned out, a little encouragement was all he needed.

While he negotiated his choice with the artist, I continued to browse through the photos of inked flesh, intent on finding a Lily of the Valley design I could display as a symbol of my artistic spirit, my appreciation for simple beauty in nature, and my birth month of October. One of the tattooists, clearly skilled at helping potential customers realize their dreams of entering the world of rebellion, helped me look for images of Lily of the Valley on the internet and explained the cons of using white ink in any tattoo. As I contemplated how to avoid white ink in an image comprised of white flowers, my boyfriend made his way to the table to get his tattoo.

The kids rambled aimlessly about the store. The sugar high from candy used as a bribe to get them through the hour-long wait was wearing off and their faces wore telltale signs of the exhaustion I felt. My window of opportunity to enter the world of nonconformity was rapidly shrinking.

At some point I figured out how to avoid white ink but I could not decide on a location for the emblem of my individuality. I was convinced that in order for any indeliable piece of artwork to enhance rather than disfigure, it had to be located in a spot where it could be tastefully revealed or concealed, a place that would not sag or wrinkle as I aged nor become distorted when I gained or lost weight.

I looked over at my boyfriend. He was fixated on his tattoo artist—herself tattooed and pierced—as she worked at turning the amoeba, unsightly evidence of his decision to trust someone while inebriated, into a symbol of his newfound passion for dirt biking.

Unable to decide on a location for my tat, and after convincing my boyfriend’s five-year-old that the rack of t-shirts and belts was not the ideal place to practice for a career as an international spy, I resigned myself to the knowledge that this was not my night to get inked. I succumbed to the lure of an upholstered vinyl bench near the wall and waited until my boyfriend’s tattoo was finished.

As we made our way to the vehicle, my boyfriend’s eyes sparkled in the moonlight. I could taste the sizzle of exhilaration and excitement that emanated from his pores. The satisfaction on his face was as fierce as the brand he now sported on his ankle. I glanced down at my own feet half expecting to see blocks of cement.

Pangs of envy stabbed at my insides as we walked. I had encouraged him. I had pushed aside my own hope for a tattoo, too concerned for everyone else—concerned that three young children couldn’t possibly endure waiting any longer in an adult oriented environment at the end of a long day, concerned that my boyfriend’s desire should be fulfilled and that he have a memory to tell and retell his friends back home, and concerned that I find just the right tattoo for myself so as not to offend the sensibilities of strangers.

Like a coarse tag on a shirt collar, the envy irritated and scratched. I was sure my boyfriend’s lack of clairvoyance was proof of his lack of insight in to my soul. I questioned my sense of practicality, which suddenly seemed more a yoke than a virtue.

We followed the freeway back to our hotel. The children dozed in the backseat, their heads lolling from side to side as we drove over the grooves in the pavement. My boyfriend gazed ahead, far away in his thoughts. As my own thoughts drifted over the past few hours, days, and months, I began to feel like I was treading water, my feelings of panic and despair accentuated by his assuredness, his distance, his thinly veiled contempt for my insecurity and his attempts to hide his waning love for me with displays of affection that lacked depth or intimacy.

The vacation, filled with fun and activity, had provided us both with some distraction from reality. The hollow space between us, which had once been overflowing with passion and unconditional love, seemed to open up to the lurking shadows. The lights of each passing motorist illuminated a well worn pathway for my self-doubt, beginning in my head and ending in my chest. Clearly, I was not ready to get a tattoo. There was no room for regret when the ink-filled needles pierced the skin.




Katherine Repka (*not her real name) lives in a small northern town in a remote region of British Columbia, Canada. She shares her life with her two children, her boyfriend, two stepchildren, two dogs, and two cats. Katherine, who works for a community college, has recently returned to writing in her spare time.

About her writing, Katherine says: Writing is something that I am beginning to open up to and make space for in my life. I know I have at least one book in me and possibly several other pieces looking for a way out. I have this mass of content all squished up in a ball inside me that I feel I have to unravel somehow.

I have written poetry in the distant past and some short stories when I took a creative writing class years ago in my first year of college, but overall my writing has taken the form of workplace communications and the occasional love letter or journal entry.

Personal writing is a way for me to explore deep feelings and process emotions, but to date none of my writing has made its way to any publishable format. I see this return to writing as a way to do something for the purpose of personal development, something I can do to get in touch with who I am and nurture my spirit.

My goal is to give myself permission to take time to write more than just on an intermittent basis in the hopes that writing will allow me to reach deeper levels of self awareness and give me a an outlet for self expression and creativity.




-related to Topic post, WRITING TOPIC – TATTOOS

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WRITING TOPIC – TATTOOS

 

 

Do you have a tattoo? Otzi the IceMan has 57 of them. His 5000-year-old body was discovered in 1991, on a mountain between Austria and Italy, by German tourists trekking the Oetz Valley. The IceMan is one of the best preserved Neolithic corpses ever found.

He was still wearing goatskin leggings and a grass cape. His copper-headed axe and a quiver full of arrows were lying nearby.

Maybe Otzi will show you his tattoos if you show him yours. He has a cross on the inside of the left knee, numerous parallel lines on his ankles, and six 15 centimeter straight lines above his kidneys. There is speculation that the tattoos were applied for therapeutic treatment of arthritis.

Tattooing has existed across cultures since 12,000 BC, though the purpose varies from culture to culture. The word tattoo is said to derive from the Polynesian word ‘ta’ which means to strike something, and the Tahitian word ‘tatau’ which means to mark something twice.

   

In Borneo, women tattooed symbols on their forearm indicating their particular skill. The Greeks used tattooing for communication among spies; markings identified the spies and showed their rank. Some tattoos are for status or to show membership. Others are strictly for adornment. There are also demeaning uses of tattoos throughout history. The Romans used them to mark criminals and slaves.

Tattoos (once stereotyped as the body art of sailors, jailbirds, and bikers) have had a resurgence in the last few decades. They’ve become a hot topic of discussion at more than one family dinner table. Teenagers coming of age begin to ask the hard questions:  “When can I get my nose pierced? Oh, and can I get a tattoo?”

Write about your relationship to tattoos. Are you offended by them? Or are they a form of self-expression. If you have a body art tattoo, write about the color, imagery, and location. Where did you have it done? Most people choose symbols that mean something to them. Did you design your tattoo? Was it painful to sit under the needle? How did you get through the pain.

Using the rules of Writing Practice, write as many details as you can remember.

If you always wanted a tattoo but could never get up the nerve, write about that. If your teenage daughter or son has a tattoo, write about your experiences negotiating with them. If you gave them a firm, “No!” – why?

Remember the cover of the Rolling Stones 1981 album, Tattoo You? The record spent nine weeks at Number One, boosted by radio favorites “Start Me Up” and “Waiting on a Friend.” Write about the album cover art. Do you remember any other music about tattoos?

What’s the most shocking body art tattoo you’ve ever seen? If you need images to stimulate your memory, check out the art at Tattoo You. Or the photographs and sketches at A Brief History of Tattoos.

Love, Central Pennsylvania, June 2007, all photographs in this post © 2008 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.

-posted on red Ravine, Monday, March 3rd, 2008

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