A Poem. St. Kilda to Irene

I am here. Staying in St. Kilda. I asked who it was named after and learned of the story of St. Kilda. The siren that sang men and their ships to their demise. I am having a wonderous time. Today is the first day of performances. After yesterdays photoshoot. Lots of great conversations, though I find myself finally falling into the groove. I get a bit tired at 5pm, everyday. Which is to say, it is 3am where I'm from. So this is normal. My internet is spotty at the flat. But elsewhere. I'm able to twitter and play WWF. This makes me uncomfortably happy. I am trying not to fall in love with this place so easily. I must admit. Its becoming a bit hard. For you -- poems. I have pictures. But my SD card isn't compatible with this world, for some reason. no worries. I'll post them ASAP. Until then. This poem.


St Kilda to Irene

i heard you were a twister of woman. that's
how they like to pin us ladies of disaster. as
a whirlwind. as tyrant. as torrential storm of
emotions. i sat on a island, like you, and turned
my throat into a bullhorn. the mates swiveled
their ships towards me and let the waves carry
them into the rocks beneath me. but you, irene, you
made a city that never sleeps, draw the shades and
pour a nightcap. you, stopped traffic in its tracks and
let the men wait on baited breath for your passing.
irene, i only called the sailors towards me for company.
i became siren of death. while men received awards for
missing my boulderous beginnings and others named
their ship after my waking disaster. they gave me every--
thing but their adoration, irene. such a cold shoulder to
a woman with a penchant for warmth and flowers and
you...irene,  what does it feel like to have someone step
aside to watch your beauty? you will become a wet
and familiar memory. your chosen will think of you
and remember the children they conceived, the art
they created and their friendships solidified after hours
of mulled wine and your song. at the sight of every
dazzling sun, they will remember you with loving hands,
irene...i envy you.