If I Were A Banned Book

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If I Were A Banned Book
Nov. 30, 2011
By William Henderson




If I were a banned book, I’d be the dirty bits and the heaving breasts and the twisted sheets and the scented oils and the chains and rope and dripping candle wax. I would coax you into multiples, and I would urge you to invite another. I’d be the empty bottle of gin on the kitchen table. I’d promise to call, but never would.

If I were a banned book, I’d tell you to challenge authority and question everything and demand answers. I’d tell you that the 1 percent is nothing without the rest of us labeling the 1 percent the 1 percent. I’d teach you to cook anarchy and embrace diversity and kiss your same-gender lover in public.

If I were a banned book, I’d let you ask me about sex and growing up, and I’d sing the caged-bird songs, and I’d be each of the nobodies who would answer to the name nobody. I’d teach you to sail a raft and swim against tides and dance in towns where dances aren’t danced.

If I were a banned book, I’d be the light on long-past midnight in your attic, and I’d be the cauldron around which dance witches and in which fire burns and toil and trouble doubles.

If I were a banned book, I’d bring flowers to the grave of a mouse and I’d teach you that forever sometimes means forever and sometimes means less than forever but always means what forever will mean to you, then, at that moment.

If I were a banned book, I’d be the secrets you write in your diary and I’d be the lies you write in your diary and I’d be the truths that you wish weren’t truths that you write in your diary.

If I were a banned book, I’d be cupboards and wardrobes and the hidden door under a stairwell in which lives the boy who lived. I’d be beanstalks and magic shoes and godmothers, winged and otherwise. I’d be potion poultice poetry. I’d be words wings wizardry.

If I were a banned book, I’d dance with insects outside of an enormous peach, and I’d race wolves in woods overgrown with ivy and snow. I’d be the substitute teacher who’d let you smoke cigarettes outside. I’d be the comic book hidden behind your history book.

If I were a banned book, I’d urge you to go ask Alice, and wrinkle time, and ride in talking cars. Everyday, I’d crown a new king fly-lord, and everyday would be a good day to say goodbye to something.

If I were a banned book, I’d be the Pigman and I’d be a Wallflower and I’d be the story of Sleeping Beauty, written under a penname. I’d kill mockingbirds and I’d talk about the things we talk about when we talk about things like death and love and sex and forever, which, as I already would have taught you, sometimes means less than forever but always mean what forever will mean to you, then, at that moment.

Dear You (Dear Me)

This has been forming in my heart for a while now and today I simply couldn't put it off any longer.  It demanded to be written, to be shared. 

Dear You,

you, the one reading these words

you, with the ancient, wanting heart

you, wondering if you'll ever

get it right

i invite you to pause

for a moment

and listen to the

space

between

these

words

to the space where

softness rests and

hunger fades

to the space that

so gently

asks you to

stop

the thoughts

that doubt your worth

to stop the voices

that compare

and leave you feeling

less

there is no less

there are no shadows or shoulds

no pretty or good

no bad or broken

no wrong or right

in Love

there is only this breath

and that which breaths it

there is only you

and your giggling

fully blossomed

self

ready

ready right now

to shine

it's newborn

ancient

just right

Light



Possessive

This is another poem I wrote a while ago, but my recent inability to sleep has brought it back to the forefront of my mind.  Enjoy.



A Bit on the Possessive Side
 These days Insomnia
has become my swirling
intoxicating lady-friend

She’s a bit on the possessive side
and insists on spending every night
after dragging me out
to parties with Idle Thoughts,
her old friend from school

We sit and watch TV
but I can’t hear a damn thing
with her constant prattle –
“Rye bread mold causes insanity?”
“That Brazilian girl was cute.”
“I’d love to visit Easter Island!”

She’s quite addictive
but I need to find a way
to let her down gently.

Potatoes

Here's another poem that's been languishing in my completed works file for far too long.  It's one of my favorites and I hope you'll enjoy it, too. 

Of the Potato
No one ever writes
in praise of the potato
It lacks the firm jewel-skinned
sweet fleshed allure of the apple -
wholesome, like a sleeping virgin
all ripe and waxed and shiny

Nor does the potato
have the slick green sex appeal
of the avocado,
like a pneumatic Martian pin-up
with a California accent

Even among vegetables
the potato's rank is humble
How can it compete
with the richly colored and musically named
broccoli and zucchini
or the fleshy, glossy aubergine
or even lettuce, when freshly washed
glittering smugly in the background
like a society wife
(never mind the wilted edges)

The potato looks rather
like a pleasantly plump woman -
lumpy, with worn brown hands
and a dirt smudged apron

No one ever seduced
a well dressed man
by feeding him potatoes

They are ushered away
from polite tables
and pointed in the direction
of immigrants and the poor

And when do they have time to write
in praise of the potato

A Letter

Mr. Wonderful has encouraged me to share some of my poetry and I've decided to try. It is very hard for me to let other people read my writing - I'm quite sure I'm not that good at it and I fear being laughed at or told to stop putting pen to paper (so be gentle with your comments). This one is titled "A Letter from the Pirate Within" and has been languishing in my folder of completed poetry for over three years.

A Letter from the Pirate Within

My Love,

Today I found myself alone on an island, deep in the Bermuda Triangle of my heart. Interestingly enough, when I awoke from my dark slumber on the deserted beach, there was a fire burning and coconut drinks with little umbrellas. They spoke to me of their longing to be consumed and appreciated by me.

I will not go hungry. I will not be cold. I will not go without little umbrellas in my hair. And so, with their desire to sustain me, I will not go without love.

Did I choose to come here? Do dreams of coconut drinks and seaweed delude me? Yes, probably.

Tonight, My Love, while I lay in my hammock, gently swaying from the palms, I will not care where reality comes from or goes to...

I will simply appreciate a fire that burns just for me, coconut milk on my lips and tiny umbrellas that twirl in the breeze.

Love Always,

Alter Me Ego