Miss Lonelyhearts Always Returns
Sometimes my soul grows tired,
tired as the twilit sky,
tired of this body it calls home:
this body that needs washed,
fed each day and put to sleep,
this body that will die a baby,
having never outgrown its constant need.
This body must always come or leave,
and it walks the same hallways,
climbs to descend the same stairs
and get to the same places;
they say a third of life is spent asleep,
but what fraction expresses the time
spent walking to and from the same bed?
Everything done again feels wasteful.
I avoid mirrors on these tired days,
because it’s hard to look myself in the eyes
and say I love me, even the least important part:
this hairy, wrinkled, blushing thing
that hosts a soul you think you’ve seen,
baked in clay and covered with pieces
and marks we must learn to love or die unloved;
they say the body is a temple or garden, and I know
those are meant to look different in different light,
cast uneven shadows and move clumsily through time,
then disappear altogether, making room for new things.
So maybe I, like they, will teach people
how to be immortal in transience, by existing after I exist,
in stories and paintings, or in unspoken memories of how
I gave the world goodness by letting it happen in and around me.
Another tired night, bombarded by Death
of people, youth, and opportunity. I close the door,
turn off the lights and face the lifeless, lightless mirror;
I stare into the blackness and pray, searching the invisibility,
alone, to find a trace of goodness in the universe inside.
I allow myself to forget that I’m meat and bone
enslaved to needs, reliance, and vanity. In the abyss
I hear an echo; it’s me, quoting Dostoevsky to a friend:
“I think the devil doesn’t exist, but man has created him . . . in his own image and likeness.” “Beauty is mysterious as well as terrible.
God and the devil are fighting there, and the battlefield is the heart of man.” “To love someone is to see him as God intended him.”
Having seen my soul in the voice with no sound, I turn on the lights,
illuminating my body and the truth that I’m free
to love again, without feeling wasteful.
This poem was inspired by one of Artur Deus Dionísio’s Instagram photos, in which he stands before a mirror; he wrote this caption for it: “‘Mirror, is it true, you don’t even have a true color?’ None at all, you know, I’m not the one you seek when you see me: I’m your mirage, but you’re my slave #cage #mirror.” As someone who’s struggled with body image issues for most of my life, this caption struck a chord with me. I challenged myself to play a lovely little serenade to myself in that chord, and this poem is the result. I hope it resonates with someone out there, so we can keep this beautiful music going.
I became acquainted with Artur after I downloaded an amazing app called DailyArt, which provides me with a daily dose of inspiration. Every day, the app displays a new work of art, along with a descriptive discussion of the artist and theme. His discussions are always my favorite, so I cyber-stalked him and the rest is history. I highly recommend this app to anyone with even the slightest creative sensibilities; actually, I just recommend this app to EVERYONE. I promise it will inspire you by reminding you that Life is Art and that nobody is ever alone.
Love always,
your Mister
P.S. – The title of this poem comes from Chapter 10 (“Miss Lonelyhearts Returns”) of Nathanael West’s Miss Lonelyhearts, the novella upon which this entire project is based.
Lonely Hearts Chapel 