Becoming Poetry
How did you decide when your writing became poetry; when did you dare call yourself a poet, in light of those that came before. Was there a time, a moment, when the lightning hit the core; the eyes once dark and void saw the world without the veil: false and fake, like trees blooming in cold winter’s night. Was there another, like you a dreamer, wanting so see a world alight with the powers of the sublime, the fantastical, and the intense interior of the soul, exposed and fragile. How did you decide to continue, when the bleak dawn of day approached, and your words failed to manifest; when the storm brought only withered leaves; and all the little things once loved slowly faded beyond the realms of perception. How did you become poetry, when all else failed.
Poetry Drafts
The Message
Not sure how to interpret the “message” I received last night / early this morning, as I awoke to a woman’s voice clearly speaking to me; speaking straight into my half-sleeping ear: Pop Art, although it might have been: pop art, as the light was out and sleep … deep. As always, when I get these messages I found myself resting on my left side, facing the empty half of the double bed; I felt dehydrated and my lips longed for moisture. I remained still, pretending to be asleep, gradually adding a fake snoring as I voiced a dreamlike mumbling of incoherent thought towards the apparition I dared not face, standing behind me: I was sure of that. After a while and after regaining awareness I tumbled and turned, with a speech loudly expressing I was rejoining the world of the awakened. The bedside lamp slowly lit and revealed no one in sight. No woman. No apparition. Nothing. I was alone, as expected.
unlock all futures
Death is my final poem,
I will write
Till the ink runs out,
I will write
The wordless eulogy:
Of days of night,
Of the raven’s flight,
Of the nomad,
The no-man – spoiled.
Death is my final poem,
I will croon
If only I could
Exclude tribulations,
As tributes
Like a springless river
Or a fountain
Of youthful dreams –
run dry.
Death is my final poem,
I will mourn
The empty parchments,
I will mourn
Their absence,
I will mourn
In silent – contemplation.
Death is my final poem.
The dawning of the frozen
Time; the unticking clock
Of awakening;
The primary cycle
Interrupted.
Hark! He knocks.
Death is my final poem.
Unwritten by hands
Shaking; by eyes
Weakened and the grey
Tears of a heaven.
Hark! Again the pounding.
Death is my final poem.
Distractions of deluded
Grandeur sail above
Innocent clouds.
Hark! Hark!
Death is my final poem.
Dissonance of unread Mail;
Drawers of dull knives filled.
Hark?
Death is the final poem
I will write
… as I unlock all futures …
On ne passe pas!
There are walls, carefully crafted
Over years of yearning for peace:
Concrete and steel, windowless walls deeper than demons’ lairs,
Higher than the holy heavens,
Thicker than the Tower of London.
Behind the walls, carefully selected
Over decades of delusion: space,
Silence, and a sequestered soul
Searching for absolution.
Outside the walls, a world forsaken
Over a lifetime of lies: time heals all
Wounds.
Masochistic Mayhem
There should be tears,
There should be shouts
Of fear and toys thrown
From prams, and jealousy.
There should be fears,
There in the rocking chair
Of horror and boys grown
From toddlers, and rage.
There should be horrors,
There behind a truth untold
Of suffering and silent posts
In parenthood, and pain.
There should be suffering,
There on the naughty step
Of old and the reopened
Wounds, and the new.
