E.P. Robles | Poetry

My thoughts have given purple bruises to my thighs.
While I have ached by tick-tock measures of time
singing into your eyes. Instead of economic pain
and societal distance, please see me crying out
from pleasure. That we all ultimately realize
that line between them both is unmeasured.

That my thin arms are bent and again folded under
a terrible weight they have pushed you to terrible
acts. That while trashed and bashed the silky hair
on my totem pole head clings and is grasped by your
primal fingers they have dug into my angelic skin.

Then, you stand up towering over your trash and are
defined by the satisfaction of my mangled body.

Love. No.

This is evil.

:: 05.24.2024 ::

Analysis from this Poet:

The poem presents a stark, visceral exploration of suffering and the thin, often ambiguous line between pleasure and pain. It begins with a powerful metaphor: “My thoughts have given purple bruises to my thighs,” suggesting a deep, internal turmoil that manifests physically. This blending of the mental and physical realms sets the tone for the entire piece, emphasizing the intertwined nature of psychological and bodily experiences.

The poem’s rhythm, marked by “tick-tock measures of time,” conveys the relentless passage of time and the enduring nature of the speaker’s suffering. This juxtaposition of temporal markers with the intimate act of “singing into your eyes” underscores a yearning for connection amidst pain.

A significant thematic element is the critique of contemporary societal issues such as “economic pain” and “societal distance.” The speaker implores the reader to look beyond these external factors and recognize the profound personal anguish and desire for genuine human connection.

The second stanza delves deeper into the physical and emotional abuse, where “thin arms…bent and again folded under a terrible weight” evokes a sense of helplessness and repeated trauma. The description of “silky hair on my totem pole head” being “grasped by your primal fingers” highlights the degradation and violation of something pure and sacred.

The final lines bring a chilling resolution: the abuser “defined by the satisfaction of my mangled body,” starkly contrasting with the concluding declaration: “Love. No. This is evil.” This powerful denouncement serves as a cathartic release, affirming the speaker’s recognition of the true nature of their suffering.

Psychoanalysis:

From a Jungian perspective, this poem can be seen as an expression of the shadow—the dark, repressed aspects of the psyche that often manifest through projections onto others. The “purple bruises” symbolize the inner conflict and self-inflicted wounds resulting from the speaker’s unconscious struggles. The act of “singing into your eyes” suggests an attempt to connect with the anima or animus, seeking integration of these unconscious elements.

The reference to “economic pain and societal distance” aligns with Jung’s idea of the collective unconscious, where societal issues and personal suffering are interlinked. The plea to “see me crying out from pleasure” indicates a desire to transcend these collective problems and achieve a deeper, more personal understanding of one’s pain and joy.

The imagery of “thin arms…bent and again folded under a terrible weight” can be interpreted as the ego’s struggle against the overwhelming forces of the unconscious. The “primal fingers” digging into “angelic skin” suggest a confrontation with the primal, instinctual aspects of the psyche that threaten the more refined, spiritual aspects represented by the “angelic skin.”

The abuser “defined by the satisfaction of my mangled body” represents the shadow’s dominance over the ego, resulting in a distorted sense of identity and satisfaction derived from the suffering of others. The final assertion, “This is evil,” is a recognition of the destructive potential of the shadow when it remains unintegrated and acts autonomously.

In Jungian terms, the poem illustrates the necessity of confronting and integrating the shadow to achieve wholeness and prevent the destructive consequences of its unchecked influence.

In summer’s light, the dawn’s soft kiss,
Awakens leaves, the vapors’ bliss.

In this park’s corner, sounds arise,
As on the left, where shadows guise.

A fairy parade, indeed, I see,
Floats decked in gilded imagery.

With masts and canvases, they sway,
As twenty steeds in circus array.

Children and men, on beasts they ride,
In carriages old, adorned with pride.

Flags and flowers, a colorful show,
In pastoral attire, they gladly go.

Even coffins, ‘neath the night’s shroud,
With ebony plumes, a solemn crowd.

Trotting along, with mares so grand,
In blue and black, they make their stand.

:: 05.23.2024 ::

Note:

Poetry is so beautiful. One day, oh one day, I wish to write a great poem!

MY vision faltered in that grim hour,
And then the windows became obscured.
Between the light and myself,
With a wavering hum – uncertain and faint –
A fly inserted itself, almost as if to taunt my sorrow.

I left behind my belongings – indeed, I did,
As a testament to that final farewell.
For that ultimate struggle – when Death,
The Supreme, claimed my breath,
And eyes, once lively, now drained and dry,
Looked upon my motionlessness, near.

In the calm between the sighs of the storm,
A quietness in the atmosphere emerged,
A hush in the darkness of the room,
Except for the faint buzz of the fly – announcing doom,
The only sound heard as I approached my grave.

:: 05.22.2024 ::

Hey now. Hey.

Strong feelings get’cha

where you goin’ with that gun in your hand?

The bar is thick with smoke and broken dreams,
another whiskey-soaked night.

Jack, you bastard,

where you goin’ with that gun in your hand?

Your knuckles bruised, your soul a mess,
you stagger through the grime of the city,
with her scent still clinging to your clothes.

in dank dark wet New Orleans

Your knuckles are cracked,
your heart’s a wasteland,
her perfume still lingers
on your ragged coat

In the smoke you lost your mind
left her bleeding on the floor
her screams ricocheting off
the walls of a miserable room,
like the final echoes of a bad dream.

what did she do?
was it her laugh, her touch,
or the way she glanced at other men,
like you were already a dead man walking?

Now you’re running
gonna take a dive
off the sunshine bridge
and swim with the currents
of the Mississippi River______
another dead man.

:: 05172024 ::