the poetry that matters

Patrick Seniuk

Patrick Seniuk is a mature student completing his Specialized B.A in Philosophy at York University. He currently resides in downtown Toronto.

Sitting With Silence

On a bench in a park, silence says hello. My arm placed around a person no longer there; squeezed tight, in return, by the derelict hand of despair. Empty space the constant; pangs of regret the companion. Contours of affect become formless with departures, lost in infinity like planets relieved from the clutches of gravity.

On the shores of one’s thoughts and imagination: a brief repose for one who is unable to traverse the summit which guards the waves; rocky sentry of the sea. Floating on what was, ruined by what is, left with the torture of knowing the opaque skies of what will be.

Trains tip-toe by, and impervious to an audience of one, steal away all resonance of a once familiar, clip-clop. Red with shame, tree leaves hush one another and play dead; embarrassed for the half of two.

Stolen away, and left with a moment of never again. The unbearable loudness of an empty seat: how wretched the person who longs to be swallowed whole, but is left to be chewed alive.

Silence is a dam built for tears; whispered words a path for pain: both burn patches of park grass with salt laden rain; a landscape fit for one.


What Good Are Umbrellas?

Above the clouds or beneath the sea, bookends for a pocket of existence incommensurable with rapture. Falling sheets of tears inconvenience the dry; clamoring for shelter, they reel in the face of contamination.

Pockets of pain are pockets full of lead. Purging skies, glistening eyes, both envelope the fragile with dread. The sun, tucking itself in between sea and sky, can only watch with indifference—the forlorn, forgone. No one speaks softly in the rain. How could it be so…with sonorous p-i-t-t-e-r –p-a-t-t-e-r?

Barefoot in puddles of pathos one endures a slow disintegration; falling out of being into a delirium of fog, plied to every crease, every fold. Storms are heard before they are seen. So, what then, did you hear about me? The affective derelict feigns equanimity, frenetically scrubbing out the salt-stained evidence of demise. No need to peer over the edge. The void is immanent, and radiates outwards, uniting the expanse between sea and sky. Such is the pestilence of ruinous torture: staring into everything, seeing nothing.


Encounters with Walls

Dilettantes of life never count their footsteps. Lighthouses on the lookout for beauty and gratitude, they fail to appreciate the nuanced sight afflicting the derelict. Spread out amongst the many, reticence in a tempest; a something to avoid a nothing. Thus, encounters with walls are coerced solicitations. While the writing is always on the wall, the longest of ropes could never allow one to scale what is said.

A world of dilettantes and masons; building up what the affective bankrupt want to tear down. The empty heart is nomadic, discovering silence at every corner. Words become sidewalks, and all destinations: expatiated footsteps. Tell me, then, where are you going when you open your eyes? Somewhere is exile. To be awake is to be foreign. The world speaks in tongues; pain, in a symphony of tears.

If you were to press your ear to my heart would you hear the piano keys crying? A pause. A sigh. A turn; the effulgence of the “out there” is oppressive long before it is offensive. Walking away, sheet music cascading in my wake, the steadfast consistency of walls sends the emotional beggar pleading for the end.

The gradual asphyxiation of anonymity is shameful under the pride of windowless walls; a catastrophe for spectators who sit on their spectacle. Denied all possibility of equal understanding, I’ll choose straightest path and navigate the prostrate who line the winding roads of existence, resolutely excavating forgeries of bliss.


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                                                                                                                                           August 2011