4 Poems by Sophia Argyris
At the Edge of Silence
The ceiling grieves,
a vast landscape of mourning,
tumbling above me like the sea.
I lie below, fighting as ever
with panic coiled
behind my ribs, flicking its tongue
at my throat.
Televised voices
infringe on the peripheries,
imprinting themselves on the walls.
Wind yelps and howls in the garden
chasing its tail, as rain
drags nails down window panes.
What dreams will follow
when the ocean finally
pours heavy over me,
and I slide, on the undertow
of a yawn into sleep?
The ceiling grieves,
a vast landscape of mourning,
tumbling above me like the sea.
I lie below, fighting as ever
with panic coiled
behind my ribs, flicking its tongue
at my throat.
Televised voices
infringe on the peripheries,
imprinting themselves on the walls.
Wind yelps and howls in the garden
chasing its tail, as rain
drags nails down window panes.
What dreams will follow
when the ocean finally
pours heavy over me,
and I slide, on the undertow
of a yawn into sleep?
Reflections of Anna
Put this picture on your wall
above a fireplace warm and red,
the bones have risen, the white has spread
over skin hollowed with darkness.
A ghost glows dully in the frame
a memory never solidly formed,
lost but not yet missed or mourned,
sits wispily in the glass.
Fingers grip and clutch at life
but sustenance must not be found,
no growth allowed to curve or round
this child to womanhood.
Limbs too long, too pale now,
jutting hips and shoulder blades
these lines are not beauty that fades
but swift departing breath;
and yet this image is set to warp,
its shape will change under shifting eyes,
it will spread and redesign its size
to trick a shadow into shrinking.
Put this picture on your wall
above a fireplace warm and red,
the bones have risen, the white has spread
over skin hollowed with darkness.
A ghost glows dully in the frame
a memory never solidly formed,
lost but not yet missed or mourned,
sits wispily in the glass.
Fingers grip and clutch at life
but sustenance must not be found,
no growth allowed to curve or round
this child to womanhood.
Limbs too long, too pale now,
jutting hips and shoulder blades
these lines are not beauty that fades
but swift departing breath;
and yet this image is set to warp,
its shape will change under shifting eyes,
it will spread and redesign its size
to trick a shadow into shrinking.
Fighting the Seasons
This time is the hardest
when days are starved,
nights grown gluttonous and fat
brooding heavily, consuming the hours
claimed by the dark, and the light
falls submissive
Cold grips us in its fist,
leaving everything short of breath.
Trees cry their tears like
old and withered letters
long unread, littering the ground
with forgotten sentiments
drawn by a gravity that seems
to hold us more firmly.
A barren beauty can be found
in the skeletal landscape
(as in a chalk sketch hastily done)
and memory reassures
that the sun will find the strength again
to warm us.
This time is the hardest
when days are starved,
nights grown gluttonous and fat
brooding heavily, consuming the hours
claimed by the dark, and the light
falls submissive
Cold grips us in its fist,
leaving everything short of breath.
Trees cry their tears like
old and withered letters
long unread, littering the ground
with forgotten sentiments
drawn by a gravity that seems
to hold us more firmly.
A barren beauty can be found
in the skeletal landscape
(as in a chalk sketch hastily done)
and memory reassures
that the sun will find the strength again
to warm us.
A Sense of Falling
Lately I have been muddied.
Not blank like unspoilt paper
but full of junk and the ends
of stagnant conversations
still smouldering like ashtrays.
There is no way out it seems,
no doorways or openings to
make good my escape;
this.is.all.there.is.
I went abroad, the flight a scream
across a darkened sky, breathed in
the air of a different place,
ate up the sun, and the moon
that first night on a silent beach
when nothing was solid; least of all me.
Distance helped me to lose time,
sweep clean the spaces I inhabit
brush away the usual debris;
find some sanctity and peace
in transience.
Yet even now back at the hard
surface of my life I cannot seem
to find an foothold.
Lately I have been muddied.
Not blank like unspoilt paper
but full of junk and the ends
of stagnant conversations
still smouldering like ashtrays.
There is no way out it seems,
no doorways or openings to
make good my escape;
this.is.all.there.is.
I went abroad, the flight a scream
across a darkened sky, breathed in
the air of a different place,
ate up the sun, and the moon
that first night on a silent beach
when nothing was solid; least of all me.
Distance helped me to lose time,
sweep clean the spaces I inhabit
brush away the usual debris;
find some sanctity and peace
in transience.
Yet even now back at the hard
surface of my life I cannot seem
to find an foothold.
