I have a weird relationship with poetry. Sometimes I really need to write what I would call a poem, but unlike regular prose, I don’t feel I have any craft at the medium.
It’s a strange feeling, because I can *recognize* a good poem immediately. There’s a resonance right there, the language does all sorts of things in a good poem that you wouldn’t think language can do.
I can see it, I just can’t make it very well, and this is where I know the frustration of the passionate art aficionado who cannot paint, or the deeply sensitive lover of beauty whose own facade is ugly- I love the twist and ache of crystallized language, but I fall short at creating it.
So I’ve sort of made my own style of nugget sized prose- They aren’t exactly, really poems.
And they don’t necessarily mean something. (They don’t necessarily not.) A poem, to my mind, is something like a snapshot- the imagery of emotions taken in a moment. It doesn’t hafta fit into a framework or have immediately recognizable context. It can be inspired directly, or by several degrees of separation.
The result always fill me with ambivalence. Ah well. At heart this place has always been my space, to write or not to write, to poem or not to poem. -And so the nuggets will continue, at least for the time being.
Don’t like to go too long w/out putting something down here, but the topics aren’t exactly raining down like manna. Worse, I started twice and bullshitted for three paragraphs on topics I was totally apathetic about. Not necessarily attractive to recognize you can yammer on endlessly without point or inspiration. Who was that dude in Hamlet? The boorish uncle…
Deleted musings: Shall I cut my hair? It’s long. I like it. I hate it.
Do you ever think about how much of life centers around things that have no weight or substance in ‘the real world’? We live in realms seen and unseen, sure, but the unseens- the conceptual stuff is really dominant: Love, death, our idea of what others think of us, ambitions, dreams, memories.
The mind is almost a speck in a web of perception; we are creatures of flesh pinned between concepts, grasping for meaning in a world comprised of baffling idiosyncrasies: A pebble in your hand is also an idea. It’s a marker of a moment that’s fleeting and finite, a beginning and an end wrapped around something concrete. Let it drop to the ground: Did it happen? Did you see it, or the retina’s reproduction of a shape and color- not even the color of the stone, but the color reflected by the stone, which means the stone is every other color except the bend of light you saw refracted.
The world’s not that different from a dream. We are composed primarily of spaces,- spaces to be filled with light, or nightmares.
If I were going to be with someone
I guess I’d be with you.
I’d have to unlearn the ways of solitude, I suppose,
and meld my skin against something
more solid than the steadfast dark.
But to take your small sips of mellow observation-
for that, and other small occasions,
maybe I’d change.
Pulling pants on in the bleak, chill morning,
seeing how your hair settled and arranged
around eyes too old
for a heart-shaped face.
Watching you take it in
the way you must have taken it in at age 5-
thinking, weighing, deciding-
choosing to be silent. Feeling the kindness in that
as I sidle apologetic
through your door.
There’s such a wait in you, such a patience;
such an assured thing, but I feel your delicate,
your parent wisdom
set among bird-feather bones.
I will bring you home flowers
to bemuse you.
We’ll eat soup.
I’ll show you what I’m good at.
In an odd moment
I can let go of who you could have been
and who I could have been,
for in the odd moment
I’d be admiring of
what we seem to be.
what we’d seem to be If I was with you, because
I guess I’d be with you
if I were going to be with someone.