The Voyage of Who I Am May Never Be is a poem I felt I needed to write, a vessel I needed to build, as I feel as though I am in a sea of change once again. For a long time I have been unable to Speak within the confines of the verbiage and vernacular of the Second Language I have spoken for and with most of my life. Although on the surface I am still recognizable, the transformation has just barely begun. In part, the poem is a reflection that I’ve failed and am failing in trying to understand my experience. I have no answers, all I have is a direction and a boat.
Who I Am May Never Be
(A Voyage in Parts of Four)
To all who know me,
I
No longer shall I be
Whom You used to know
Pregnant with my Love for you,
I must leave, my Love, the place
I’ve come to know as my Home
I still see you in Thought and Dream
Pixie hair the Forest and the Trees
I can taste your lips and your breath on me
The soft white Bosom of a shy, beloved queen,
Raveling, unraveling
My everything
Where You once were,
A vacuum now has consumed
A Thousand Light Years Away,
Ten Thousand Centuries Ago,
An Orphan and Widow, have I stood
After a few Goodbyes were not enough,
Making coherent a world bereft of You
Has undone the Sinews of Reason and Thought
And split the Earth in Two
All the Oceans and the Seas
With a Shout and in a Blare,
Have awashed its waters all over me
Reckoning and Thrashing me about
In a Chorus of Raucous Cacophony
No longer shall I be
Whom You used to know
Heavy with Longing for you,
Has ravaged the world and place
That I once called Home
II
All that is before me is the Brine and Sea,
Where a Man of Old on a boat appears to be
Belly full of Tears of Endless Woe of Long Ago
Sorrow has Whet his Face and Body into Stone
The moment will arrive
Blind, I shall be, through these Eyes
My Vision is collapsing
It is getting closer now
The Cramping of the Womb,
The Widening of the Girth,
The Tumultous Changing of the Guard from
Contractions that shake and roll the earth
In the Bowels of a Man of Old
All that I am is drawing to a close
As my boat drifts aloft the deep Atrillean Sea
The birthing and endless babble of Storie, the Child
Shall be the death-knell of what’s left of me
III
You may not believe the reason for my going
You may not understand why it is
That I must leave
You may think this is
Who I am, or where I need to be
But who I am is not myself
The Armour upon my Flesh is not my skin
My Mouth is not a mouth,
But the Sword of an Infant King
If I shall return
From that Great Abode, Abyss and Sea
Know this, my Love, my Friend
Storie the Child has died giving Birth to Me
And You may see Me once again
I know not if that shall be
You may not be You
And I may never be
You may think this is who I am
Or where I need to be
But who I am is not myself
And my Face is not my face
But some other Face, indeed
IV
No longer shall You be
A Figment of my Memory,
Pregnant with my Love for You,
May give birth to a world and place
I can finally come Home to.
Yours truly,
