Friday, July 21, 2006
I have been sitting at my desk for hours; I have been drinking in information – my soul and spirit are numb – I have been dealing with the growth of others but I feel shriveled, dying. I am overloaded in plainness and painfully dry of rainbows. My mind has been subjected to regression as it thinks backward into the norm. I hope to spring the trap, unlock the doors and set a bunch of students free from the narrow boundaries and plain words of the skills that bind them by being small like little rooms with almost no windows. My sorrow compresses me – I’m boxed in until I can work the locks. I ache to be free but carry my prison with me. I am the cat asleep under the car, in danger but I can’t wake from some crushing dream. I long to peel off skin and find a poem.
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4 comments:
These three poems weave together like a tapestry, a grieving triptych--posted/woven on the same day--Friday July 21--with the same sorrowful/painful themes threading them together.
From your hidden cat underneath the car to your bouffant desperate lady alone in the city to the incorporeal measure of silence and nothingness and everything in between in your "Cezanne"...
I love and hate that I identify so with these images and feelings at this moment in my life where small bombs are dropping around me.
They are quite extraordinary in what they quietly convey.
There are things to love in this world and there are things to hate. They are intertwined so profoundly that moments of love and hate walk hand in hand down every corridor of our days. Most people sort them out, seeing the one they prefer and ignoring the other.
My poetry has been a long, loving attempt to describe what truth I see to the best of my humble ability. You are exceptional, my dear scheherazade, in that you see or feel them both and can embrace them in a single moment of seeming contradiction.
I grieve for you that you are troubled by these small bombs and pray for some moments of peace to give you some rest.
Thanks for your insightful comments, they deflate the hollow room of my loneliness.
Sadley most poems grow from such desperate emotions, I like the idea of peeling off your skin to find the poem within, but there is also the anguish of wondering if it will be there
The worst for me is feeling myself fill up with very small issues, Sue. Then is when I feel a pressure within that badly needs letting out
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