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.
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.
There is the creeping horror
of a soft-traitor’s smile
as fingers relinquish one box
and reach for another.
The heart-rending foil crinkling.
Warm, fruity goodness!
(don’t believe it)
(This is a sadist’s dream concoction: The entrails of strawberries
stomped and desecrated by cheaply processed
The tomb, the catacomb of this horror,
an inviting, golden brown pocket-
derives it’s pallor from
highly processed flour, and some variation on a theme
of shortening. It is a starch nugget,
a small death that will cling to the rasping lungs,
mold itself to the dense, wet cave of
lipid build-up already enacted,
closing off lifeblood
from the hungry, howling heart.)
Do not discredit the valor of oatmeal!
Bypass the bright, deceptive font! Do not believe!
Rage, rage against the ambush of nutrition!
Oh. Well… fine, eat it then…