Poeming

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.

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Maya

Surrounded.

The stuff pushes in, new stuff; Christmas stuff and clutter. I have a tendency to be overwhelmed even by too many groceries after a trip to the store, the consumerism of Christmas always freaks me out a little. I don’t know how to catalogue things, except books. I have just gotten done giving things away, things with emotional weight; I never keep such things. They stay new and perfect if they are full up with expectations that never realized fruition, or a disappointment that hangs over my heart. It’s so much easier to gift wrap my emotional bounty and give it away in parcels,

But there is always the incoming. The influx.

I don’t pretend to be well, but tomorrow and the next are also parcelled into organization bits. This year I will synthesize a little bit more of the love offered. I’m frowning over a sum, bent over the computer. The stuff has a presence of its own, looming and omnipresent as rock formations in my mind.

What she does, the kitten, is she leaps into the middle of everything that seems so serious and so much. She’s a little girl cat, and she’s one of *those* girls, you know: The kind that prove boys aren’t _quite_ the most lovable things on Earth. She’s all round tumminess and slightly slanted green eyes, and she can take the distance from the couch to the arm chair in one leap, no sweat. She lands in the pile of my terrible stuff, and I’m laughing, suddenly, because there’s a ribbon caught on her whisker, and she’s a rakish pirate cat. I push it all aside, very matter of factly, and retrieve my wayward cat.

Strange magic, Maya. You turn my sink and soar into a comical flounder. I want to write, to respond to people far enough away that I can get close to them. And of course push away those who have gotten too close, find some way to word my regard and still carefully post my ‘Keep Out’ borders, but you won’t stay on the floor, will you?

She jumps into my lap with the stubborn, single-mindedness of a girl cat. Gracie was the same way, but Gracie didn’t leave four tiny holes in the skin of my thigh, rousing me to holler from the pain of her stubborn climb.

You’d laugh too, to see her looking wild and alarmed, rushing away from the shout, to hide behind a pile of ‘Shall i keep them?’ books. She knocks things down. She doesn’t listen. She hops into my lap over and over while I’m sitting at the keyboard, thinking I will write the twisted etchings of my mind.

I have to take my hands off the keyboard, and wrap them around this little, purring body. She doesn’t understand anything. She doesn’t know I’m a failure, that I make some sort of living off of introspection, that I hate myself, and the holiday, and love my family and hate their presence and hate  hate hate the STUFF; she’s a fool.

And she’s real. And soft. And alive.

And I’m in love. 

good ash, good rubble

I was going to write something, but stopped. The other night I wrote something and took it down again. But that wasn’t enough: I took down others, divying up  and ultimately tearing down great mastadons of self expression.

I survey the ash and rubble with satisfaction.

There are other works on here that have been condemned. They’ll soon go under the wrecking ball.

It’s interesting to think

later, I could try and reference myself

and be unable.

Isn’t that beautiful? We live in an era of excess words. If someone should happen to do the improbable and bite their tongue, they quickly go and talk about it elsewhere, the act punctuated with a hushed and underlying horror, like some trauma has been visited on the once bold and articulate soul.

“When he said that, I just shut my mouth. I turned around and walked away. I didn’t say a word… not a word.

Well you have now, you said twenty. And then reiterated.

Imean_they_ reiterated. You’re blameless here, for this miniscule meanwhile, before the process gets turned around and churned out again. You are the generous party, taking it in.

.   .   .   .   .

Bring the wrecking ball, sign the papers. 

I have exposed myself, and,

I need a tan.