What is it with me and associating myself with objects? Is it poetry? Is it cruelty? Both? The words ring true with me, my soul, but while others seem to enjoy them they do not seem to understand. But for me it is not a matter of mere words. It is myself expressed on paper without the poet's presenc e. Most poets say "I," yet I find myself using "it." Am I it? Am I the objectified unhuman? Do I not deserve the feelings that accompany humanity?
What a torture the act of contemplation is, questioning, confusing, causing chaos in the turmoil of heart and brain. Humans require one another to thrive but objects find difficulty in association. Doomed to solitude, and no ability to call it tragedy. An object may be forgotten -- missed perhaps, but ultimately forgotten in principle. A human grasps the minds and souls of others, steals away a part of them, leaving a void that can never be totally refilled. I feel replaceable, unacceptable, false, plastic. A living breathing mannequin, positioned always by others with no mouth to speak and no ears to listen.
But then, what have I to say?
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Concavity 11/6/2010
Today, I went to Mom's house for the first time since she moved. It was mostly empty except for a some odds and ends. A TV here. A chair there. Everything looked so much larger than I recalled. It seemed as if it had been abandoned long ago, like hollowness was its natural state. As I wandered I tried to evoke memories of the home I had inhabited for so long, but could not. I felt just as empty as the house itself, a sort of bizarre bonding of likes in their concavity. A poetic blankness weighed my thoughts, searching for words to describe a feeling I did not possess.
Why can I not feel as others do? These false affections are like poison, contamination my head and heart in equal parts. Reality evokes only emptiness. Only fiction evokes the true power of sentiment. It is a torture to know in the end I cannot be happy without the mystery of the unattainable. The struggle for happiness will inevitably lead to unhappiness. Perhaps I was meant to be immune to the real. Perhaps hollowness is my natural state as well. Then the question is: do I accept this or do I change it myself? To remain hollow or to become false? Either way, I am lost.
Willpower (7/7/2010)
I changed the structure a tiny bit, a couple lines breaks here and there. This and the one below were posted to FB when first written so these won't be new to several people. This is my current personal favorite. Comments still appreciated. :)
____________________________
There is a kind of
menace
in the daylymonthlyyearly revolutions
of a numbing tumbling space.
The dim and shaded Moon can only see
as far as its spectacles will allow.
While Lady Sun basks in the glow
of her own star stuff,
shining to her billion billion sisters,
accompanied and entertained by the endless dance
of her infant planets,
Moon —
stony and sleek in its spot of sky,
all shady lines and callous curves
with a face ribbed with the wrinkles
of a hundred thousand weary craters –
has only pretty Earth.
Ever facing,
ever twirling,
set on a path
upon which childish Earth
has come to rely.
She does not see a happiness in Sun.
She sees no vindication
in the permanent desolation
of her sibling rotary stones.
Of all the beings Moon as known,
she has envied none so much
as the comets that blast through black,
leaving trails that slowly burn and fade
like mist against the Sunglare.
All it takes is a single push.
The gentle tug and pull
of will
against all math and reason,
the selfish need for something more
to ease the wantingneedinglonging.
Blue and yellow sequin spills,
amber umber oil paints,
red and violent velveteen
tracing patterns in the ageless brick
of a dying universe.
And while the Lady Moon pursues
a thousand sights of beauty and decay,
wheeling in its glory and simplicity,
forgotten is the diamond Earth,
that subtle pearl,
aching in its loneliness,
and feeding on
itself in search of
love.
____________________________
There is a kind of
menace
in the daylymonthlyyearly revolutions
of a numbing tumbling space.
The dim and shaded Moon can only see
as far as its spectacles will allow.
While Lady Sun basks in the glow
of her own star stuff,
shining to her billion billion sisters,
accompanied and entertained by the endless dance
of her infant planets,
Moon —
stony and sleek in its spot of sky,
all shady lines and callous curves
with a face ribbed with the wrinkles
of a hundred thousand weary craters –
has only pretty Earth.
Ever facing,
ever twirling,
set on a path
upon which childish Earth
has come to rely.
She does not see a happiness in Sun.
She sees no vindication
in the permanent desolation
of her sibling rotary stones.
Of all the beings Moon as known,
she has envied none so much
as the comets that blast through black,
leaving trails that slowly burn and fade
like mist against the Sunglare.
All it takes is a single push.
The gentle tug and pull
of will
against all math and reason,
the selfish need for something more
to ease the wantingneedinglonging.
Blue and yellow sequin spills,
amber umber oil paints,
red and violent velveteen
tracing patterns in the ageless brick
of a dying universe.
And while the Lady Moon pursues
a thousand sights of beauty and decay,
wheeling in its glory and simplicity,
forgotten is the diamond Earth,
that subtle pearl,
aching in its loneliness,
and feeding on
itself in search of
love.
Suiting Scars (6/1/2010)
This loving mars
these suiting scars
that build a bridge of memory
over ever-weaving skin.
Interrupt the construct
of ugly over ventricles,
of agony in arteries.
The blood is water underneath.
It seethes and churns
like boiled oil in the lungs,
painting course cambric in the eyes,
a veil of dampened requiem.
No. I won't go back to it.
That sullen reply,
that feeble grounding,
that sleeping lie,
that misty reverie
that calls awake the nervous system.
That system which is nervous.
these suiting scars
that build a bridge of memory
over ever-weaving skin.
Interrupt the construct
of ugly over ventricles,
of agony in arteries.
The blood is water underneath.
It seethes and churns
like boiled oil in the lungs,
painting course cambric in the eyes,
a veil of dampened requiem.
No. I won't go back to it.
That sullen reply,
that feeble grounding,
that sleeping lie,
that misty reverie
that calls awake the nervous system.
That system which is nervous.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Existent
Equilibrium fading out at the speed of sound
Winding down
Into something wicked,
Something twisted,
Blacklisted,
Mixed up in all the lights
And sounds
Of a city slowly dying,
Lying in its waste,
Lying through its walls
Of gravel and bone.
And me,
Stuck in the middle
Of it all
With no one,
A moth clinging to the steel
Of a maniac driver's grill,
Invisible to the world,
Nothing but stardust
And velvet
Threading
Like blood
In the wind.
Winding down
Into something wicked,
Something twisted,
Blacklisted,
Mixed up in all the lights
And sounds
Of a city slowly dying,
Lying in its waste,
Lying through its walls
Of gravel and bone.
And me,
Stuck in the middle
Of it all
With no one,
A moth clinging to the steel
Of a maniac driver's grill,
Invisible to the world,
Nothing but stardust
And velvet
Threading
Like blood
In the wind.
Fair-Eyed Captress
Love fear me not.
I see you chase away behind the door,
See your pretty eyes within the lock.
You block my only hint of light in this prison,
But your eyes glint coolly
Like the clouds beyond the stars.
This light is warmth—
Is life—
And without it I should die.
But your gaze is wanted here
On this poor forsaken wretch
And without it too I shall die,
Another stone to these poor prison walls.
I see you chase away behind the door,
See your pretty eyes within the lock.
You block my only hint of light in this prison,
But your eyes glint coolly
Like the clouds beyond the stars.
This light is warmth—
Is life—
And without it I should die.
But your gaze is wanted here
On this poor forsaken wretch
And without it too I shall die,
Another stone to these poor prison walls.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Neon Eclipse - I'm gettin' it back
Methinks I've gotten my poetry muse back after a long absence. I am quite happy :D
____________________________
Neon Eclipse
I gaze into a starless sky
As neon lights go sailing by.
Neon billboards, neon signs,
Neon PETROL, neon Christ.
Neon Hollywoods and Sunsets—
Boulevards where dreams are made.
Smoke from late night cigarettes,
Fuming red hot Jags and mags
Draw a blanket through the streets
Of smoke and fog
And concrete.
The stench of the night
Is thick, and rancid—
It excites.
Music bumps the hazy air,
The heart of the city
Residing on painted curbs.
Saxes singing, feet tapping,
Hands clapping,
Lashes batting.
It bounces off the crystal roofs,
Imprisoned there,
Absorbed and drowned
In the ear of a businessman
Fixing his last highball
Of the night.
These towers here are shady and bright,
All sweet illumination,
Gritty shadow,
Hallowed promise.
The stars are dim and distant,
But the neon lights are high
And pretty enough
To be the stars
Themselves.
____________________________
Neon Eclipse
I gaze into a starless sky
As neon lights go sailing by.
Neon billboards, neon signs,
Neon PETROL, neon Christ.
Neon Hollywoods and Sunsets—
Boulevards where dreams are made.
Smoke from late night cigarettes,
Fuming red hot Jags and mags
Draw a blanket through the streets
Of smoke and fog
And concrete.
The stench of the night
Is thick, and rancid—
It excites.
Music bumps the hazy air,
The heart of the city
Residing on painted curbs.
Saxes singing, feet tapping,
Hands clapping,
Lashes batting.
It bounces off the crystal roofs,
Imprisoned there,
Absorbed and drowned
In the ear of a businessman
Fixing his last highball
Of the night.
These towers here are shady and bright,
All sweet illumination,
Gritty shadow,
Hallowed promise.
The stars are dim and distant,
But the neon lights are high
And pretty enough
To be the stars
Themselves.
Monday, January 25, 2010
New Poetry! - Abstruse
After a very long absence of creativity, I've finally written a new poem :D Hopefully the first of several (but don't count on that. As always, enjoy, and leave comments!!
________________________________________
Abstruse
Streetlights dancing in the rain.
They are but lifeless candles,
Forms we give functions,
For our lives demand it so.
They shudder and shake
Like breath on the wind,
See without eyes,
Uncare without thought.
We pass them by and ignore them--
Like silent gods,
Like totems,
Casting our shadows
This way and that,
This way and that,
This way and that,
This way and that,
This way and that,
This way--
And then nothing.
A black void.
We look into it,
Hands stuffed in pockets,
Thumbs picking idly at nails,
Feet on a track that will not stop
Or slow,
That just keeps going
And going
And going
And going
And going
And going
And--
We reappear,
Our former selves,
(our reflective selves)
And forget about the umbra of the rain.
We are home.
________________________________________
Abstruse
Streetlights dancing in the rain.
They are but lifeless candles,
Forms we give functions,
For our lives demand it so.
They shudder and shake
Like breath on the wind,
See without eyes,
Uncare without thought.
We pass them by and ignore them--
Like silent gods,
Like totems,
Casting our shadows
This way and that,
This way and that,
This way and that,
This way and that,
This way and that,
This way--
And then nothing.
A black void.
We look into it,
Hands stuffed in pockets,
Thumbs picking idly at nails,
Feet on a track that will not stop
Or slow,
That just keeps going
And going
And going
And going
And going
And going
And--
We reappear,
Our former selves,
(our reflective selves)
And forget about the umbra of the rain.
We are home.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Pure Articulation
So...I haven't been very emotionally stable the past few days, so I made myself hand-write everything that came to mind and this is what I got. It let me sleep. Good enough for me.
__________________________________________________________
I am cursed with the art of purely articulated emotion.
__________________________________________________________
I am cursed with the art of purely articulated emotion.
When my heart is glad, it is not merely so. It is joyous. Enraptured. Enlightened. Halcyonic. Contented. Happy. A whole dictionary of words all wrapped around each other like children rolled in blankets. They dance and sing and laugh about my head, pull at the dimples in my cheeks, bubble against my throat, spill bright paints into my thoughts until only the edges burn in gray and black.
In this way I am blessed...
In this way I am cursed, for when my heart is not glad or contented or enlightened it is instead weighted. Caged. Tortured. Ugly. Numb. Lifeless. It is a prisoner beating and struggling against its bindings, pulling and screaming and begging for the mercy it knows will not come, for its captor does not even recall its existence.
And yet, in all things, amidst all words and circumstances, one among them remains constant.
Love.
It is a precious word, at once black and brittle and perfect and beautiful. It is the poet's vice, for she cannot live without it, and yet to live with it she must die for it. She knows it is a privilege to be entitled Guardian of such a pretty fickle creature—but what torturous and cruel a thing it is, when all other poets she might share in love lie dead and unburied in its wake.
Must I walk this warpath alone, without companion but for love itself?
Must I sustain such loneliness? For naught?
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