LEAVES

we walk alone together

Month: June, 2014

17.5

too moody to talk about it –
I sit at the center of my room
a hundred shades of one shadow:
there is nothing of my body
so I am not there –
I am nothing to give.

I can separate,
unwind in mechanical sequences –
in absence I am free,
I do not blight any
with myself.
I do this because I want to.

I will lie in white space with no edge –
everywhere is a center,
every shift takes me further nowhere.
that is how I can live –
selfishly weightless,
an unseen hollow.


 

this poem is a testing of waters, a checkpoint for myself, in a way. i think it might be an extension of manifesto no. 17, so maybe i am unwittingly (or not so anymore) embarking upon a series of sorts.

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Prayer

to my 30-year-old self

I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I’m here.
― Sylvia Plath

It is with contained and hysterical fear
that I call for you.
Half of me does not expect
to have you secure –
for presently I feel I am losing you.
My hands are not real,
nor my body,
nor the world that frightens and suffocates me.

This is why you might be dead
or trembling in a sterile room –
it began here, and my poem is a reminder.

But when the hot, painful grip subsides
I sit here quietly
and life becomes tangible,
I become real and stop flickering.

poetry is felt, not fathomed (re: jeremy paxman)

poetry is felt, not fathomed (jeremy paxman)

I feel compelled to place this here. I am really thankful someone can put into words what I have never been properly able to, and hope now with his words out there we can acquire a greater space for and appreciation of poetry in the human fabric. :~)

“We believe, even now, not just in the power of words but in their capacity to imply things beyond the dictionary definition. Words are not stable entities you can slam down like dominoes. They carry a baggage of music, context, allusion, attachment and history. It is the baggage that produces the poetry.

We have a visceral understanding of such things. We know at heart that poetry isn’t just a pretty way of saying plain things. We know that more happens in life than rational statements can account for, and that language is our great makeshift attempt to give some shape to them. The reason poetry has survived so long and will survive as long as there are human beings is because those shapes matter. Certainly some poetry is abstruse, as is some music and art. As is a great deal of political discourse. The difference is that abstruse political discourse is often bland. Poetry that is bland is not poetry.”