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The Way Of Reckoning
by Joyce Collins
ã2009 Truthteller Publishing
12807 Aqua Valley, Helotes, TX 78023
www.truthtellerpub.com
All rights reserved
1st Edition, 1st Printing July 2009
ISBN 0-9743024-3-0
Cover by Johnny Dallahan
Illustrations by Joyce Collins
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Foreword
I am an
incest survivor. My father first raped me when I was six years old and continued
to well into my adolescence. My psyche coped with this trauma by splitting in
two – a child who experienced every moment of the abuse and another child who
knew nothing of it. In her book, Miss
America By Day, Marilyn Van Derbur, who is also an incest survivor, calls
these personas the night child and day child. Neither my night child nor day
child knew the other existed until my repressed memories surfaced at the age of
37 - some twenty years after the abuse ended.
I have
been writing poetry since I was 15, most of it sad, much of it philosophical -
all of it insightful even though I didn’t yet have the ability to understand the
insight. In retrospect, it is as if I were writing for a future me whose task
was to re-integrate my night child and day child into a whole person. The title
of this book, The Way of Reckoning,
is the title of the first poem I wrote after my memories surfaced. It is the
quintessential example of a poem written for the future me, describing both the
violent upheaval I was beginning and the revelation of truth that would result.
If you
are a sexual abuse survivor, I hope this book helps you. I hope the poems give
words to the feelings you haven’t been able to express. I hope the poems let you
know you are not alone in having those feelings. Lastly, I hope this book gives
you hope that your wound will heal as mine has. If you have not experienced
sexual abuse, I offer this book as insight into the mind and soul of someone who
has walked that path and come out on the other side.
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How to Find a Poem
About
half of my poems are titled. The others are numbered, and I list them in the
table of contents with the first line of the poem.
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Acknowledgements
I want to
thank my sister for believing me, and I want to thank my mother being my rock
through all the remembering. I also want to thank my therapist, Susan Hartman,
for guiding me on this journey and my psychiatrist, Luz Stark, for prescribing
me medications that saved me from taking my own life. Lastly, I want to thank
Marilyn Van Derbur for writing her book. It was a lifeline to hope that healing
was possible.
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The Way of
Reckoning.
Reptiles drop their tales in
fright
and live to grow
another.
Humans split the limb alike,
but bind it with a
tether,
so long and thin as time
goes by,
we think of it as
other.
But memory grows its
tendrils out
from wounded limb to
well,
and bides its time 'til
boundary thins
and tendrils' touch is
felt.
Then all hell breaks loose
–
or that's the way it
seems
as tendrils hook, then pull
apart
the self I know as
me.
A foulness spills out my
bowels
and takes my life-force with
it.
Where food once fed is
nauseous dread.
My stomach yields its
content.
My head is wracked with
migraine pain
and fear is strong for
madness.
All these confuse and mis'ry
bring,
but none compare the
sadness.
Illness say doctors -
Nay!
I know the past is
beckoning.
I am not sick from bug or
germ.
It is the way of reckoning
–
to tell the tale and tell it
whole,
each unto the other, until
they realize
they are we and we are the
survivor.
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Letting Go
To cling to what I
treasure,
and shun what I fear,
is not in itself the
vice.
That lies within the blind I
wear,
and the will to pay its
price-
To never know the
value
in the consequence I
fear,
Or the detriment to life
itself
of that which I hold
dear
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Rage
I feel the strength in my
arms
shooting out my
fists
Pummeling, Pummeling,
Pummeling
until exhaustion
relinquishes my mind
back to
reason
My eyes open and I see
what I have
done
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Sharing
Tree
The Giving Tree I thought
was good
Now I see unhealthy
wood
It gave of self in rarest
form,
yet reaped no love in
return
It gave and gave ‘til none
was left,
save a stump – its one last
gift
And still the boy does not
see
the value of the Giving
Tree
So when comes the very last
page,
The boy is tired and worn
with age
Despite the tree’s steadfast
will,
the boy is old and unhappy
still
I wonder would things
different be
If it had been a sharing
tree
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The Soul
The soul is like a sphere
whose radius extends
not in one direction, but
all
Bursting forth in equal
proportion,
a great ball of
light
Though dressed in honor, she
wears no airs,
For she sees with equal
clarity
Life’s majesty and
absurdity-
Calling at once for both
humble reverence
and hysterical
laughter
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Haunted
By the
memories
of what I
saw
of what I
did
of what I did nothing
about
of
guilt
of shame
of horrible, horrible
helplessness
hers
and mine
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Depression
Like a knock on a door
I cannot refuse to
answer
It arrives, and I dread its
coming–
its
weight
For there's no carrying this
load,
Only bearing it –
Upright
Then falling to my
knees,
‘Til finally
prostrate
And still it stays and
weighs
heavy on my
back
Then goes,
unannounced–
Quietly
As it
came
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Fear
I carry it –
like
luggage
It is heavy and a
burden
But I need it I
think,
lest I cast my lot
completely –
in favor of
joy
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Gut Wound
A dream dies – mortally
wounded
by the acceptance of
reality
I ask it to go
quietly
but it does not
It is a gut
wound
I cry out to God,
“Why are you? Why do
you?”
Do this to
me
But no answer
comes
After a time I alter my
question.
“How do I find
it?”
“In what form comes
relief?”
Soon comes the answer,
In
grief
In
grief
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Addiction
Come on
down!
Try your
luck!
You know it’s bound to
change
The past is
past
Don’t look
back.
You have so much to
gain
The game’s the
same
You know it
well
By now you are the
best
Just pick the time, the
place, the face.
I will do the
rest
I guarantee consistency
This game will end the same
–
Time and time
again
This game will end the same
you see –
Just for you my
friend
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Outcome
Why is it so, the less that
I know,
the more certain I am of
it’s content?
Fearful thinking fills the
void
because the unknown is
infinite
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A
Penny of Grace
I went to the prayer box,
my soul hungry and
nude
And found a penny of
grace
for shelter and
food
A penny of
grace-
all I
required,
had been left in the
box
by someone
inspired
When I
returned,
I dropped in a
dime
For a needier soul
at a needier
time
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Deaf Until I
Listen
I try to make her see it
–
this wounded child of
mine
Nothing is as it
was
There’s no reason for the
pain,
but she is deaf until I
listen,
rigid until I yield, all
–
consuming until I
surrender,
lame until I bridge the
gap
and walk it back
again
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The One
I see your face at the end
of wait,
the one day of
someday,
the liquid of longing gone
past
It is to me the fulfillment
of dreams,
the soothing of
wounds,
the rising of joy at
last
All this would be
so
I know, I
know
If your lot with mine
were
cast
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Enough
Enough he would
say
when he didn't want to play
anymore
Enough
tennis…
(You hit the ball over the
fence too many times)
Enough
frisbee…
(You made too many bad
throws)
Enough
wrestling…
(You're starting to
win)
Enough spending time with
you
(That I really didn't want
to do)
Enough bearing the terrible
burden
of your longing to be with
me
Enough it should be to
fulfill my obligation
But it was never enough and
the the words
in parentheses always
tainted time he gave,
Always dashed the illusion
that I was special
at all, much less enough to
inspire his love
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Sin-Sick
Soul
Sometimes whisper, Sometimes
shout
Always fear, Always
doubt
This voice inside I can’t
block out
To the world I show a face
Of confidence, Of poise and
grace
These things are real, But
only part
What’s in my soul, What’s in
my heart
If I don’t edit, They’ll
find out
Confirm my shame and my
doubt
Once again I’ll hide my
face
I’ll be put back in my
place
Who am I to ask so
much?
For love, affection, Human
touch
To happiness I have no
right
Cease my song - Put out my
light
Who I am is an
offense
Is the message I
receive
Despite opposing
evidence,
That’s the message I
believe
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Ode
to Inigo Montoya
Hello, my name is
memory
You raped your
daughter,
who loved you
dearly
I do not
lie.
Hello, my name is
will.
On her you imposed
me,
while you drank your
fill
It drained her
dry
Hello, my name is
shame
I served you
well
Wracked is she with guilt
and blame,
but ne'er you
cry
Hello, my name is
terror
With me you broke her
mind
Day and night I pursued
her
Nameless and faceless was
I
Hello, my name is
rage
I was that
daughter
Now I am not
her
Prepare to
die
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Peace
There is no
hurry
There is no
wait
There is no
early
There is no
late
I no longer seek
distraction
from ever-present
anxiety
There’s no discomfort in the
now –
It’s not prickly like it
used to be
I’ve no concern for the
future
The past no longer drives
me
Instead I float – as on a
raft,
And let the river guide
me
My soul rejoices in this
freedom
I breathe so ever
easily
I know now that I
belong
to a god who loves me
dotingly
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~ 1 ~
Time served two the gem of
joy
each on mirrored
plate
One did hurry to capture the
prize;
the other thought to
wait
Death saw naught but
refracted light,
and at his plate did
hiss
Life, instead, cast aside
the rock
and gazed into the face
of bliss
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~ 2 ~
Belittle, belittle,
belittle
Become undone, be
naught
Be little, be little, be
little
Become, by one, be
taught
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~ 3 ~
Life is not a
closet
from which we may choose
an
emotion, disposition, or
perspective
It is more like a
nanny,
who chooses from her own
closet
what we shall wear that day
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~ 4 ~
What a place this silence
is –
I think I like it
here
There's nothing to remind me
–
No consequence to
fear
I can almost say and do and
be
all my heart
desires
And never face the
certainty
that action soon
requires
I can walk the earth and
never move
a single grain of
sand
What a place this silence is
–
This almost living
land
Yes, I think I like it here
–
I'm never going
back
Look! A tree to rest my
bones
I think I'll take a
nap
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~ 5 ~
Too much in my
body,
too much in my
bones,
too much in my
sinew
to my spirit
know
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~ 6 ~
Such delight I find in
him
In him my mate I
see
My soul is filled with
longing
For words from silence
free
Alas, I’m trapped
–
he wears a
ring
His door is closed to
me
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~ 7 ~
Anger to pain is preferable
–
Numbness better
still
Best of all, to bind them
all,
and sugar coat the
pill
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~ 8 ~
Sometimes I
thrash
with bitter
stroke
in a pool of
discontent
And then, my anger
spent,
I dry myself on a rock of
sadness
under a sky that has no
sun
I do these
things
and let them claim
me
for they and I are
one
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~ 9 ~
God lays his quilt across
the trees
and paints the ground with
its leaves
Each bears the color of its
fruit,
some flamboyant - others
mute
Orange orange and lemon
yellow,
ruby red and golden
mellow,
macintosh with pumpkin patch,
deep plum pudding and a dash
–
pistachio
And though my eyes can't
drink their fill,
the season offers greater
still
Such sweet aroma fills my
breath
to wake my primal union with
my soul and senses one and
all
I love thee, love thee, love
thee, Fall!
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~ 10 ~
Truth is price and
purchase,
burden and
relief,
and Passage from endless
fear
to finite joy and
grief
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~ 11 ~
Healing is an iterative
process,
a progressive probing
hex
The first step is agony,
followed by a rest
Successive steps improve by
the delta
Agony –
x
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~ 12 ~
Two rocks lie on either side
of a path
They are mates
–
their faces tell me so,
"We were one, but now are
two –
cleaved by brutal
blow"
I notice as I pass
between,
a faint ambilic flow
It is, I think, their former
wholeness
refusing to let
go
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~ 13 ~
I shall send Reality to burn
at your side,
and illuminate the face of
Illusion
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~ 14 ~
Alone in the
desert
I long to be free and scream
out the pain
But when I think of
it,
I hold myself
in
The burning
sensation
will only get worse if I let
myself feel it –
the depth of my
thirst
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~ 15 ~
When my mother wore
rose-colored glasses,
the world was always
fine
And if it wasn't really that
way,
it'd surely be it
time
But then one day she took
them off –
much to my
surprise
But even more the
shock
when I did come to
find
She'd worn the lens for many
eyes,
and one of them was
mine
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~ 16 ~
I never thought to live in
my house,
to renovate the
rooms
I only sought to get
out
To live in something
new
Ten times I
left
Ten times I built
that house again the
same
from breakfast nook to
ceiling fan
from brick to window
pane
In my rage, I tore it down
–
stripped it to the
frame,
and in the end, found myself
out
through a door that opened
in
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~ 17 ~
I long for the world where
souls mate for life
and breath unmitigated
truth.
Whose speech is unfettered
by faces that lie
And life is not jaded by
fear
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~ 18 ~
We walk the fence of
self-esteem,
our faces toward the
sun,
but never leaping
there
It’s all we can do
–
keep our feet on the
beam,
And avoid the shadow’s
lair
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~ 19 ~
Every deed both cruel and
kind
falls on fertile ground
and finds a mate to spawn
again
‘til kings of kings are
crowned
Tempt this does to measure
worth
of praise or scarlet letter
–
tally thorn and vine since
birth
and sum the deeds
together
But all our deeds are
potter’s clay
at last if not at
first
None can take our worth
away
or nullify our
worst
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~ 20 ~
I feel sorry for the house
–
for the walls that had to
hide,
to hold, to hold
inside
for the wallpaper
stuck there, trapped
there
with eyes that wouldn't
close,
for the roof that had to
keep it together,
make it all seem
sound,
for the floor on which I hid
by my bed,
that small space I
controlled
It had to know. It had to
know.
I feel sorry for the
house
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~ 21 ~
My Father taught me
plenty
Although he doesn’t know
it
He taught myself to hate
me
To love, but not to show
it
My father taught me
distance
And the judgement it
implies
He taught me to fear
weakness
And the consequence it
buys
My father taught me
doing
To from my feelings
hide
It is from him I’m
fleeing
Though he has long since
died
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~ 22 ~
On the anniversary of my
death
I remember
pain
Such as I had never known
before
Such as I had never known
possible
I remember
betrayal
Such as I had never known at
all
I remember my soul consumed
by fire
Not yet a phoenix, but
ashes
I remember this
anniversary
Inconceivable and unwanted –
loathed even
At the
time
All this returns to
me
All this is in the
present
All this is in the
past
On the anniversary of my
death
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~ 23 ~
Childhood is when we get our
wounds
Adulthood is when we feel
them
And if we
persevere,
It is when we heal
them
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~ 24 ~
I am not who I've
been,
the person you
know
I’ve been a shadow
–
A ghost in a
show
The color of
appropriate
The tune of
just-right
The shape of
fits-in
The line of
in-sight
Now I am nova
–
brilliantly
bright,
life-changing
color,
sight-seeking
light
My moments are chock full
–
the realest of
real
I think what I think
I feel what I
feel
Sometimes I look back
at how I was
then,
the lessons I
re-learned
again and
again.
Those rules I
created
had hemmed me
in
Thanks to the
tearing,
I'm not who I've
been
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