HOMO SAPIENS: A LIFE SENTENCE

Homo Sapiens: A Life Sentence
the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short”
Thomas Hobbes

Homo sap, just up from his nap,
toddled out of his cave, trundled on toward his grave,
built up a fire, imagined his pyre,
rolled out his wheel, of which he made a great deal,
gathered his buds, fashioned furry duds,
assaulted the beasts, prepared lots of feasts,
dug up the soil, took all for his spoil,
fenced in the woods, claimed all the goods,
set the world ablaze, creating a haze,
rolled his tanks over all, in fierce frenzied thrall,
plagued by hordes of bugs and of weeds,
politicians and bad deeds,
died at last of starvation and cold,
no longer bold, no hand to hold.

Loves me / loves me not
reading Szymborska

I am not beautiful so he does not see me
as beautiful or love me as beautiful
though my ex-husband, who once loved me,
or so I thought, called me stunning.
By then I had not dressed for him.
It was a stunning backless blue dress
and we were already divorced.

I was proposed to by a man who thought
I was special--whatever that is--
but never once said I love you, I guess
because his glass was half empty
and he couldn't.

And this one, who calls me his girlfriend,
but can't bring himself
to say I love you because I'm not
his mother. He doesn't kiss because
well, just because. And now he says
love you as a salutation.

Three men who wanted
to be my life partner but
couldn't say I love you?

Holding the Folded Body

At the corner of the round earth,
blow your bassoon, make your sound.

Come, my battered son, from the dearth
that lures you to acid and self-destruction.

Hold the folded body; caress the whisper key;
feel the press of lips on your new-made reed.

Your scattered body,
gather up in a new music;

each note its own execution;
flood your space, soothe fires that kill.

Transpose your battles, no more war,
demolish the tyranny of teen despair.

Renew the self, your precious self,
that raw school beats down.

The you, whose eyes follow a different star,
master death--all those cuttings, your slit wrists.

Find a space you can love and leave
all those sins behind: yours theirs ours.

It's not too late to ask mercy through music,
fractured sound made new by your young breath,

your lips kissing the double reed, your tongue
crisping tones to the slow release: low sound,

the critical reach: blind fingers finding
the right octaves, the deep tonal sweet spot

your hands hold the body
the folded body of music.

Gone the hate, gone the fear, gone every bully
that made you feel less than yourself.

May the music buttress you, raise you up
to seize those stars you seek, those stars.

Cordelia Hanemann, writer and artist, co-hosts Summer Poets in Raleigh, NC. Active with youth poetry in NCPS, she has published in numerous journals including, Atlanta Review, Laurel Review, and California Quarterly; anthologies including best-selling Poems for the Ukraine and her chapbook. Her poems have been performed, featured, and nominated for Pushcarts. She is now working on a novel.