Ah wow, I feel like I have so much to say. I’m feeling so many things. My personal life feels okay, feels happy actually. The state of the world however horrifies me, angers me. I feel completely helpless about… this war. I want there to be something more I can do, something beyond feeling moved at the sight of flags. That’s something I keep remembering from Sunday, just seeing all these blue and yellow flags fluttering in the wind and how they made me emotional and it’s still what I see, in my mind, and I’m not a part of this, but I want to make it better.
My poetry class ends tonight. It’s bittersweet. I loved this class. It felt like a returning to myself. Over the holidays, I visited my mom and found in my childhood room all my poetry books I used to read as a teen. It was fun to sift through them again, and I wound up taking all the books back to my apartment. And now I’m surrounded by the poetry I used to read when I was young, and it makes me feel like some part of myself has been rediscovered and it’s incredibly comforting.
I only have two poems that are “finished,” one a regular poem, the other a long prose poem. Honestly, I don’t know if they are actually finished. These are the first poems I’ve edited and attempted to finish since the last one I posted in this blog. They both might need more editing. But in the spirit of holding myself accountable, I’m going to share them. PS, they do sound better when read out loud.
Dreams Turning, Spiraling
The bear is a computer
freezing in the wilderness.
Its mind is silver with images.
Its paws hover, its claws click
nervously against the tree
The bear is here, not there.
It’s not above the tree
like the crows that keep cawing,
cawing, the crows
that flash their wings with ill will
and make the forest
The bear is freezing, surrendering
to the heart inside its hairy coat.
Its mind is silver with images
that load, and load…
Rose remnants of dreams
slowly spinning, and spinning,
into weeds spiraling
Scope of a Loss
The broken down house at the end of the field. The heart sprawled out like a welcome mat. Stand atop of it with shoes. The sound of leaves crinkling, someone leaving. The sound of waves hitting the house, hitting it until it cracks, until it falls smack onto the ground and converts into dust and sea, becomes the salt found in eyes.
Navigating the in-between, the inhaling of poisonous smog and the consequent awakening, the bright burn that blisters one’s dignity. The intrusive memory. The heart sprawled out like a welcome mat. Stand atop of it with shoes. The sound of leaves crinkling, someone leaving. The sight of autumn breaking, its scattered shards glittering with irony as it lays.
The reds and yellows paling into ghosts, into alien purples. The cold. The blood vessels as they restrict. The moments of smiling buried under the necessary, unnecessary waves, which come and go, some with dolphins some with sharks, some with bites and some with strides through the dark where the calm is eerie.
Space, stars, planets and beyond. The scope of a loss. Winter’s wings spanning from one edge of the sky to the next. And the small, icicle breath rolling jagged out my mouth.
Anyway, I don’t know what else to say, despite feeling like I have a lot to say.