Dematas - Conversations with Skeletons

Also by Kirk DeMatas Wordspeak (2008) Conversations
with Skeletons
Kirk DeMatas
iUniverse, Inc. Bloomington Conversations with Skeletons Copyright 2012 by Kirk DeMatas All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting: iUniverse 1663 Liberty Drive Bloomington, IN 47403 www.iuniverse.com 1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677) Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them. Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery Thinkstock. ISBN: 978-1-4759-3424-3 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-4759-3423-6 (e) Library of Congress Control Number: 2012911173 For Myriam, Arthur, Samuel, and Joseph Contents There is something about a closet that makes a skeleton terribly restless. Wilson Mizner, Playwright. In the autumn of 2008, a dear friend of mine told me that her marriage was coming to an end. She was heartbroken. She had poured so much of her love and herself into this relationship, and now she, wearing her love for this man as a badge of honour, was thrust into a world of mourning.

It hurt to see her suffer, and so we began to spend more time together. She became my sister, her children became my nephews, and I became their guard dog. I watched as she grieved for the loss of her relationship. I watched as she searched within for the strength to move forward in her life. I watched as she travelled back into her past to confront her demons. I watched her walk in confidence on a path toward a future full of light.

One night, while spending time with my friend and her children, I came to the realization that my own closet had become cluttered with painful memories. I had to accept that in order for me to become a strong and positive influence for my friend, her children, and anyone else in my life, I too would have to travel back into my past to confront my demons. I started writing poems for this book in December 2008, and at the time, I told another dear friend that I could complete this project in two weeks. I did not realize then that this project would demand that I unearth my soul in order to reveal the skeletons buried within. Each poem in this collection is a recollection and reenactment of an experience, and so each poem is presented in chronological order. For the past three and a half years, I regularly positioned myself in a figurative place of darkness in order to converse with each memory.

I communicated with my former selves as if they were individuals. I tried to understand their pain. I cannot even describe the intensity of the emotions that met me in those private moments. I often felt as if I were losing my mind to the hungry wilderness of the past. I came close to abandoning this project so many times; however, upon the completion of each poem, I was rewarded with a sense of relief, swiftly followed by an exquisite feeling of accomplishment for casting out another demon. The majority of the poetry in this collection was written in free verse; however, I did experiment with different types of poetry, such as the Ronsard ode (Ode to My Present), the terza rima (Into the Arms of Fate), and the traditional Welsh triban (Adam and Angie).

I flirted with different rhyme schemes, such as the Venus and Adonis (As the Godfather Rises and Sets) and the ballad (My Eyes Would Rather Scrape the Floor). I also decided to bastardize certain types of metre, such as the Alexandrine (Confronting the Grief of Years). To further enhance the experience of this book for myself and for you, the reader, I asked my good friend Tosin, president of TIA International Photography, to be the chief photographer for this project. The poetry in this collection erupted from an intimate and often emotionally chaotic place, so it was important to me that I work with a skillful photographer I could trust. My defences were lowered for four days as Tosin captured over four thousand photos from seven photo shoots. It was definitely a challenge to choose only eighteen photos for this book.

It is my belief that exposing demons to the light diminishes their power. Freedom reigns in the distance, but it all begins with a few conversations with skeletons. Kirk DeMatas Toronto, June 12, 2012 I. A Boys
Miseducation On my thirtieth birthday, I woke to the sound of bones rattling inside my closet. The vibrations rapped against my naked eardrums and lured me into the realm of the blues. My consciousness rode the sound waves like a sea bird scanning an abyss for some nourishment.

Beguiled by this rhythm, I understood the trap, just as Josef K. does in The Trial . I could hear the scratching against the heavy door, and after what felt like one year, I stood. My hand became a benevolent dictator, ushering the darkness into the light. The air was soaked in the miasma of secrets exhaled by the shadows in my closet. Frozen in the eye of a tornado, I watched as secret histories swirled about me.

I recognized my various incarnations caught in their repetitious narrations. My former selves remained the monarchs in their worlds; as I witnessed this, I became anguished. To save my former selves, I had to dry my tears; I confronted the grief of many years. The light of peace filled the room and I became free. Your eyes shine as bright as two sunrises in the old photo housed in its frame, a picture of love from another time, when innocence was not met with shame. My mind travels into this charming scene to embrace my cherished memories.

Your eyes shine as bright as two sunrises as you fetch me from a night of dreams. My young tongue trips over words as I cry over night visions of beasts and fiends. Wrapped up in your arms, I sleep as in bed; creatures dare not creep into my head. Your eyes shine as bright as two sunrises in my mind as I try to hold on. The image of you slips into the sky, and time seems to roll back to the dawn. The night returns, and I fall back asleep; the beasts return to mein my dreams.

Your eyes whisper farewell as two sunsets ride into the opened arms of night. My tongue trips over my words as I fret over the loss of my own white knight. Wrapped up in the distractions of strange men, I wish I could see your face again. The innocents lay in the arms of darkness; resting comfortably in the silence, the two fall into a deep slumber. In dreams, the young silhouettes enjoy the pleasantries of the fantastical. The sun runs along their skin as laughter rides upon the wind; they are free from the seduction of ripened fears.

But even in this dreamland, the sun must fall, and as the night draws near, the innocents are steered back to reality. Quiet in the room, the silence is startled by her harsh voice. Staring and not seeing, her vision is twisted by a suspicious imagination. Accusations simmer behind her hot eyes. She burns my innocence away, and I rot, the memory of me swiftly banished into the shadows of her mind. My schoolboy self hangs his head in shame.