Thursday,
I don't like writing too fast then posting before the metaphorical ink dries on the page. But I don't care much for never getting anything done. I heard it took Eliot years (five years to be exact) to finish writing The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. That's a very long time . . . but a damn great poem. I do work on my poems, but never for a whole five years. I write until I think I can't write anymore and hope I got it right . . . most times though I do go into rewrites, usually about a year or so later. This one is new. Hope it's finished, but more than likely . . . it's not.
Drive
write something, create fuckin' something,
anything, everything into one poem . . . one word,
two or three . . . or shout them out the window,
watch them bang and bounce about
against the winter elms, the sparrow wind,
slammed against the naked white walls
inside the cage you build for yourself.
that itchy need to prove to others, all the others
and to yourself that you do, you do exist . . .
in the dark, in the void, words muttered to the hand
that argues its own being . . .
the hollow sound train whistles make
when all turns midnight.
Hopefully the sun will arrive soon.
A big, hot sun will come along
evaporate this wet surrounding me.
Wipe it away, throw it away take it way
before I become one . . . with it.
replaced by a solid something . . . concrete.
A silent, sacr
ed assurance.
All will be well, all will be peace
as soon as I can close my eyes
for the last time.
rrw o1-13-15
I don't like writing too fast then posting before the metaphorical ink dries on the page. But I don't care much for never getting anything done. I heard it took Eliot years (five years to be exact) to finish writing The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. That's a very long time . . . but a damn great poem. I do work on my poems, but never for a whole five years. I write until I think I can't write anymore and hope I got it right . . . most times though I do go into rewrites, usually about a year or so later. This one is new. Hope it's finished, but more than likely . . . it's not.
Sometimes
all you have is something,
that
driving need to do . . . something, write something, create fuckin' something,
anything, everything into one poem . . . one word,
two or three . . . or shout them out the window,
watch them bang and bounce about
against the winter elms, the sparrow wind,
slammed against the naked white walls
inside the cage you build for yourself.
Words
scrambled together, nailed together,
slapped
together, glued together that itchy need to prove to others, all the others
and to yourself that you do, you do exist . . .
in
words, if only in your own imagination,
between
the hours of 1 and 4am in the shadow morning,in the dark, in the void, words muttered to the hand
that argues its own being . . .
the hollow sound train whistles make
when all turns midnight.
Deep
end of the pool, I am.
I'm
treading water well enough. Hopefully the sun will arrive soon.
A big, hot sun will come along
evaporate this wet surrounding me.
Wipe it away, throw it away take it way
before I become one . . . with it.
Easy
enough to give it up, give in,
trade
it in . . . the will to live . . . replaced by a solid something . . . concrete.
A silent, sacr
ed assurance.
All will be well, all will be peace
as soon as I can close my eyes
for the last time.
rrw o1-13-15
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