Anthony at dVerse Poets Pub has us talking about music being the food of love, and urging us to play on. Who am I to disagree? Musicality, rhythm, sound is all-important to me in poetry – when I read the poetry of others or when I write my own.
When you were mine I took you for granted.
I lost you and never noticed you had gone.
My desk, my car, my home bathed in silence –
I believed them calm. I thought I relished the peace.
Then one day I wandered by chance to a small room
cloudy with sweat, bulging with smoke, but a space
where you were revered
uttered with honey-dripped tongue
encased in love-laden arms.
No more passing by in deafness.
You unleashed yourself against my ears
entered my pulse
forged new pathways in my limited world.
I am always late for the event (not even elegantly late, but REALLY late), but do join us over at dVerse Poets Pub for the Open Link Night. Today it’s all about the poetry of the everyday, the mundane, the meretricious…
‘Awkward,’ he said,
dashing out of her bedroom and into her brain.
Forever to measure the yokels who followed,
the husband found wanting,
the wood left entangled,
the burbling of Jabberwocks
that filtered and flitted,
never to be caught again.
So they lived and soldiered on,
grim lines they furrowed,
Not the harmonious calm of unspoken shared thoughts
but the hush for fear of a storm.
So they dealt with the past.
Not brushed aside but lulled,
put to pasture,
With nervous asides for skittish breaks.
Non-mention will cicratize the wounds.
This month, and, above all, this past week, I have had to shed my creative self like a snake-skin and slither back into my smooth professional self. There are many things I enjoy about my work (performing in front of a mostly attentive audience, having my opinions mostly respected, getting paid most of the time). Yet I can see that it is not conducive to writing.
So diametrically opposed to writing is this kind of itinerant consulting life (there, I’ve said it, that’s what I am!), that I found myself struggling to write even those book reviews I have been planning to write for the past 2-3 weeks. Not just because of travelling, being tired, faulty or overpriced wireless networks at hotels… but because my words have all been used up.
When you use persuasive language, corporate jargon and the left side of the brain exhaustively, it becomes nearly impossible to fall in love with words again. I no longer want to play with them, soothe them with a lullaby, tease them with a come-hither look, bend them to my will or surprise them and myself. All I want is blessed silence.
And escapist books to read.
There is a quiet deep down things
I cannot rumble
Will not shake.
There is a beauty among the bricks
I might break.
There is a tension, and the trigger
Is sometimes bold,
At times hair-thin.
Do I feel part of something bigger?
I cannot fathom.
May never win.