this is how it used to be – it came easy,
in deliberate swoops over the keys –
my fingers hammering out exactly
what lies in my heart. It was me –
I turned my back to it, and yet
the whispers never stopped,
always gently pleading &
feeding me morsels of
phrases, maddeningly
brilliant but never
close enough to
really say that
which I want
to say, so I
let it go,
and it
went
dim.
Category: Poetry
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january 11: today the words didn’t come
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january 10: today I looked for joy
each poem I write reads to me like
it’s cast in shadow, dozens of corners
and recessed bits in the phrasing
where darkness pools and makes all
the syllables clumsy and grim – so
I force beauty into my lines, and
into my life, by proxy.I strive to rescusitate those
letters across the page, as a reminder
that this is not a disaster, but only another day.
with enough effort, even the choke of panic
in your throat that comes from the meer
weight of living – even that breathlessness
can be beautiful. the joy of living
has never left, it will never go away.
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january 9: today I fought off the cold
sitting in a cold living room I toy with words,
feeling the unbridled pleasure as ‘warmth’
rolls off of my lips, fills the room and mingles
with the sunlight through the foggy window.it’s a way of working magic into a dreary world,
to fill it with sound and passionate fury.
someone has given me a voice with which to sing,
and whispers the right words in my ear.I sit in a cold living room, watch the sun
work its way through the cat’s fur on the bed,
and I begin to fill my world with warmth & sound,
I craft letters together slowly – I sing aloud.
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january 8: today I meditated in thought
“To be, or not to be, that is the question: whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?” – Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
we’re made of stronger stuff then it feels, sometimes –
durable and unyielding. the more I look the more I choose
to classify humankind as stubborn, in a word – we resist
all opposing forces, we transmute, we adapt.
shakespeare called the day-to-day pains of living
slings and arrows of outrageous fortune – a fine
depiction of the glory of waking to the late morning sun,
outrageous fortune. I turn the words over and over in my head,
a warming thought in my core that dulls away the nicks
and stings of those arrowheads and stones.
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january 7: today I sat in the sunlight
the cold is the herald of january this year,
seeping in through the windowpanes and
the constant passenger whenever I’m in the
car, chilling my hands numb as my fingers
tighten around the icy steering wheel.I pass the time during the morning by reading,
glancing out the windows, searching for sun
that will soon pour in the windows and
stretch out over the city – the familiar
downtown shopping district of my town
lit up and elucidated.I watch as people file in and out
of the train station, idly picking
at facets of their lives by what they carry,
briefcases and bookbags hint at stories
I don’t yet have the wherewithal to capture.yet my eyes blink steadily, lazily
saving glimpses as they close
like a camera shutter – I wait for the sun
and think of you, I pray for warmth
and offer poems.
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january 6: today I thought back on the year
while driving to work I watch the snow slide
down the streets, flakes forming eddies and swirls
as they get caught in small cyclones along the sidewalks.
I’m trying to find satisfaction in snow, in new beginnings,
because I’m tired of my false deadlines – these
established dates that mean nothing, in a sense.the idea of a New Year is seductive, a seperate
and mysterious entity – it’s as if crossing that
mystic threshold between the two years inflicts
a similar restorative change to your person as well.
but I woke up parched in a crowded hotel room,
with the unshakable sensation that it was just another year,
just another day.the change must come from within, I know,
but a long buried part of me wishes
for outside intervention, afraid of the pains
of failure and realistic aspiration.
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january 5: today I made plans
I’ve carried my routine from the old year into the new,
scheduled arrivals and car rides, predictable rotations
of tried-and-true dinners. We’ve become comforted by
complacency, letting the same conversations
run their course as we sit across from each other –
it is in this way that the days bleed together
and I let the weeks slip past as if in a fugue.standing outside I feel the cold seep through my coat,
settling into my skin like fabric soaking up water.
the moon shines off the mounds of ice and snow while
the dull ache reminds me that I’m the culprit,
the one holding me back. I look to the stars, connect
the points of light into familiar shapes – always looking
for distraction, where ever I go.
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january 4: today I drove listening to the radio
I cannot stand silence anymore,
because it’s in the stillness
that the rush of thought becomes
a deafening roar. I crowd it out
with good intentions and folky
guitar and warbling singers –
replacing that hole within
with the desperate ache to
make something just as beautiful.this poetry is my therapy,
cartharsis through cementing
my worst thoughts and fears –
a written account of my sadness
and my longing. my family
says I’ve grown quiet and grim,
but on the inside I’m wailing,
singing piercing notes that
resonate within my inner corridors.
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january 3: today I walked in snow
already the poems are turning autobiographical,
but the thought makes me smile –
in later months, I’ll scan through vignettes,
a year in the life condensed into snapshots,
brief breaths of melancholy committed to words –
like when the blizzard snow turned icy and dirty
from the traffic, the world no longer looking
blank and inspiring but tarnished and worn,
that is the breath that overwhelmed me,
standing out on the sidewalk, listening
to the ducks out on the bay furiously
taking off out of the water,
beating their way
across the sky.
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january 2: today I watched Gus
our cat is sick, perched ragged
on top of the cabinet.
I kiss you off to work, and
settle into the discomfort
of a grey afternoon.
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january 1: today I rode into a new year
riding in the car
after a stagnant morning –
the road stretching out
of a night too warm and long.the music on the radio lulls me to sleep
and your gentle touch wakes me,
in the front seat I can see
all of us, tired and satiated,
catching glimpses in rear-view mirrors
and salt-stained windowswe choose our moments in songs,
driving back home into a new year
across memories of our pasts –
with white lines whirring hours by,
comfortable clothes and melting snow.
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2011 – A year in moments
For the new year, for my new link in a chain of failed resolutions, I’m going to strive to write a poem a day each day in 2011. I’ll likely pay little attention to editing, but will probably go through the better drafts to revise them or expand.
I’ve had such a sorry writing schedule over the past year – poor enough to call non-existent. I’m hoping this will get me back into some sort of rhythm. I hope you follow along.
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Tripping Over Strings
What can you do when survival is all that’s left,
when you feel the color washing before your eyes?
We sit around in clandestine circles, brooding,
that we can extract the joy from our lives,
and we never stop to fill each other’s holes.I look at myself in the mirror. I look within.
I should not, I cannot bring myself to complain,
but the days bleed through and I cannot ignore
that daily, gnawing hunger that you feed with
meager accomplishments and yet it screeches
“what’s next?” and I cannot, I should not answer.Maybe that’s what we’ve lost. Maybe that is what
should punctuate the filling of our glasses –
those miraculous strings that pull us together,
that we should be so fortunate for chance to favor us.
The days bleed through, we grow fatigued from
the daily, arduous climb. We come together,
but we just end up tripping over the strings.revised 8/10/10
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New beginnings
The oppressive amount of ads on Livejournal.com have moved me to search for greener pastures.
A brief acquaintance once said to me that “Writers write,” which I to this day find vaguely profound, even though it seems a completely banal and trite thing to say to a young man looking for advice. I’m trying to be wary of my growing cynicism, since everything I write and encounter seems trite and banal. I must learn to write for the sake of writing.
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