Candy M. Gourlay

Cement Stars and Pin Oaks

'The difference between
false memories and true ones
is the same as for jewels:
it is always the false ones
that look the most real,
the most brilliant.'
- Salvador Dali

Pin-oaks cast shadows
like van Gogh cemented
stars into canvas.

Elastic band stretched time
since dawn last received
me with warmth.

Bitter chill no matter
the season, I must rise
to meet it-knowing,

as I know, like blossoms
know when to bloom,
that I do not belong.

Flesh begs to be sent away
from here. Doors closed
behind me when I am gone.

I am not worthy anymore.
Cups with chipped edges
must be cast away,

useless to the very ground
cushioning heavy steps.
No reprieve

from hard-boiled eyes
and spills remain stained
into my existence;

burned into conscience
for an endless length
of imperfection;

of pin-oaks casting shadows
like stars cemented
into sky,

like this treachery
has been fastened
to the jacket of my life.

Older

‘I still wish on the evening star and I suppose I always will.
Every child loses something a whole life can’t fulfill’
- Sophie B. Hawkins, Lose Your Way

I do not seek perfection anymore.
It is carefully measured blocks
on pages of a burning notepad
and serves only to remind me
of flaws in an irregular design.


Through tunnels of another time
walls lined with ageless faces
watch life unfold- singed petals
of a parched daffodil.


Endless corridors and creaking
floorboards of the past offer thin
comfort to me now that I am older.
Mistakes are pedantic professors
from whom I learn or die; and life
is a circle.


We once lived in a shady road
lined with Jacarandas.
Like a stone church, our home
held magic; not heat.


Now it stands demolished; raised
to the ground- a buried coffin
containing relics of the past
which appear and vanish at will
like wisps of white cotton cloud.


Dead people still chat and laugh
inside its walls, where discarded
fragments of who we were exist
shrouded in thin veils of sunlight
and dust particles floating
above stained carpets.


I drove past the other day.
No evidence of its existence remains.
Perhaps all the time; all the years
before, were just a dream.


Reality of deceased moments
is distorted and recollection
conceals vinegar with thick dollops
of honey, yet the cost of forgetting
is greater- and frailty is my yardstick.


Memory remains a clever illusion;
a kaleidoscope arranged by pain
and perspective, and somewhere
between the loud ripe colours- a small
girl still waits at the top of the stairs.


She will always be there.
Always waiting, hoping for someone
to save her.

Glass Garbage

‘Like fallin’ rain the days go by
can't kill the pain and you wonder why
be strong, hold on, ‘lotta love to go around
stay wild soul child don't you let 'em bring you down
it's like a dream wake me up when it's over’
- Shawn Mullins, Soul Child

Pictures are toxic memories
smudged with swirls of evidence.
How wrong you were about me.
Ribbons untied, wrapping paper
stuffed behind cushions.
What lies beneath exposed-
devious creature, the spider inside.


Apple fallen from a tree
rotting at the core, you peered
through windows not intended
for your eyes and into the darkness
of sin, I fell away- a human sinkhole.


My silence was your poison, burning
through phone lines; hurtling across
continents; flowing over sea beds.
Words could not do justice, nor explain
that it was never about you.


Philosophy is a weak antihistamine
for allergic reactions to living.
Wretched lies, emotional suicide
severed blood ties and you
became a proverbial hypocrite
while I- just a goddamned bitch
and-then-some, honey.


More difficult to digest than death
the chilling fact that what I did
removed you from me, permanently.
Forgiveness is a tarnished tiara
collecting cobwebs in the attic
and deception is a wedding dress
softening my sharp edges.


Like a pickled onion, you exist
on the mantle behind satin glass-
matron of honour for posterity.
I seldom dust you, afraid
you will crack beneath my touch.
Broken glass cannot be mended
so I throw away thoughts of you
like garbage.

Candy M. Gourlay was born on a windy day in the autumn of 1973 in South Africa where she still works, writes and lives with her husband and three children. Her work has appeared in print and online in numerous publications worldwide, including Beatnik Journal; Extraverse; Platinum Poetry; Poems Niederngasse; Reflections Journal; Slow Trains; Taj Mahal Review; Tapestry; The Breath; Thought Fragments; Wide Thinker; and elsewhere. She has also recently been published in the NAWW Writer's Guide (National Association of Woman Writers, US), and is a finalist in the Poetry Institute of Africa Annual Awards. Upcoming publication in 2003 includes Feminine Writes Anthology; Flaming Asian Ink; Golden Thread Anthology; Little Brown Poetry Print Anthology and Online Journal; Peshekee River Poetry; Side Reality; and Wired Art from Wired Hearts. Her debut work of creative non-fiction, Story of a Girl is scheduled for publication late next year.