All entries for January 2010
January 29, 2010
Argh! Break through form you say. And how is that to be achieved? Poetry, damn it, what is my poetry? Why can I not see beauty in the tiniest of things? And if I can, why don’t words capture it? 3 impressions remember: mind, body, heart and soul. Well, no body. Where is one to start? How is one to start?
I don’t know if I can write.
Mind: Of course you can. It isn’t hard or hard at all. You’re sitting out here in the freezing cold aren’t you? What more of a true poet can you be?
I have a companion. Two, in fact. A bird that sits resolutely with his back to me. I am not worth his notice. And wind, that whistled for my attention but has disappeared now. I am not worth his attention. Where is my poetry?
Heart: In me. Look hard enough, cease to ignore me and you shall find it.
How? How does one look? I do not understand you, I cannot understand you. I am trying but you seem empty or filled with confusion.
My friend still ignores me
How do I sort you out?
Soul: Bugger it. Who even knows what the soul is?
Where is my poetry?
Can one cheat in writing? Fake it all effectively. Write fiction for non fiction, invent emotions to beef up words that will not come?
How do I make them come? How do I make them good, readable, beautiful, Poetry?
I am cold. My friend ignores me still. Winter, though, has reached out a loving hand, freezing mine in return.
The wind is back. I take it winter does not approve of the last statement. Who shall read this? Why should one want to?
Turn the page, says the wind. Start afresh. But it is too late for that. I am lost in identity, perception–
My friend just flew past me, not an inch away from my ear. I heard and felt his wings as they whipped past. I never saw his face.
I am cold. I am very cold.
As I get up to leave, the wind blows me a kiss.
She knows I will not return.
January 28, 2010
I step through scrapped paint and strewn glass, into the haloed sunlight and my domain. The first thing that strikes me is death: curled up yellow and spongy brown as my carpet. But it welcomes me in it’s own way: there, embedded in the darkness two concrete slabs forming their stenciled T. Tashan. I smile.
I step and glass crackles. I stare down into the splintered fragments of my self. Another step and more crack. But a whisper whispers that they were shattered anyway and that it is time, it has been time for a long time, to let go. Uncharacteristically, I listen.
There are two ways before me. On one side there is emptiness– air, open space, safety. On the other, there are brambles protruding from a trunk of a tree that I can’t see, curling into an open palm of a knobbly, skeletal hand. Its brittle fingers entwine with the trees opposite to block my path. I choose it anyway, fitting malleably through the gaps it leaves behind. When I stumble forward, it is into clearing, a circular clearing, splotches of green and blue and luminous brilliance. I laugh, for how can one not, for there, right in the center is a bed of moss and weeds, open to night’s constellations and the light’s fire and I belong, I am wanted, I am welcomed. Thorns catch me as I move forward and, fleetingly, I am forced to stare into the empty shell of a house, alone, abandoned, and defeated. Inhabited by wind, paint and looking glass, it begs me mournfully not to leave, to try one last time, to come back to humanity. I laugh, for how can one not, and don’t look back.
Then I see her, Hailey Royale, the non- confrontational activist. She is sitting upon my midsummernightdream’s bed, her hair sparkling with my filaments of light, her smile dancing with my stolen joy and she is not saying anything. I see the laughter in her eyes as she takes in my atmosphere and she pierces me and I flinch and my world is just that little bit tainted.
Again, I have a choice– politeness or aggression? She tilts her head slightly, still staring into my soul and I flee towards politeness.
‘Whose side are you on?’ I ask
‘Yours, of course,’ she says. ‘Isn’t that the only one there is?’
I close my eyes and go, silently, back into the house.