Trusting in Compassion
You know her:
she who loves everyone,
but still sits down with you,
to listen to your good and bad days:
the time when you made 1st place,
when you found a beautiful site,
when you someone loved you,
and also the car accidents,
the arguments that left you weak,
the stress of shouting.
But she knows you;
she talks with you about anything,
listening, mainly, to the tender mercies:
the small smiles and the simple songs.
To her you open up your hopes and fears too,
trusting in her compassion.
She tells you to dream big:
to catch the moon in your palm,
like it’s the hand of a new friend.
And she assures you that you can do it,
that success is yours, if you will take it.
But who really knows her?
When the time comes, you leave her,
for other friends who don’t care as much,
because you know she understands.
You are sure she doesn’t mind.
And she doesn’t mind,
but alone in her room, she thinks aloud;
she writes with ink on paper,
and bangs on the pillow,
hoping she can bury the silence
and re-write her heart.
--------------
If you think I'm posting a lot because I'm bored, you may be half-right, but I'm also posting because I like this poem that I wrote yesterday and want comments on it. I have it now so that the blog send e-mails to my mom who loves editing things so I at least have one reliable source. To avoid speculation I'll admit that when I originally wrote this poem, I wasn't thinking of a girl at all, but now I can think of a couple who fit the description in different ways. But in my mind, the poem talks about those people who really are great people, but who sometimes get laid aside for others. And they don't want to mind it, but somewhere deep down it bothers them and they don't want to feel that way. As I thought about the title, I saw how the line "trusting in her compassion" is actually dead center in the poem. You probably didn't notice, but I did and I got to thinking - "you" may be trusting in her compassion, but isn't she also trusting in "yours"? And look what happens. Anyway, that's what I wanted this poem to be about. Does it work? If not, how could it? What do you think about it?
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
A Window to Me, Parts 1-3
A Window To Me
I.
I imagine, if you looked from where you are,
You could find me in a blue room,
Sitting one elbow on a mahogany desk
And holding a black ink pen, a ripped paper before me.
The azure carpet is littered with remainders:
A white suit to wear tomorrow,
A grey book whose pages long to be caressed,
And a small white note, telling me to phone home.
My sister’s paintings hang on the painted wall:
One with a silhouetted man confined to an autumn canvas,
The other of a girl standing before a dark mirror,
Seeing she isn’t beautiful, but a marsh grass green.
But you can’t know everything, only gazing in.
My floral bed sheets smell of burnt sugar and other failures;
the round clock resting above the doorway
continues to sound it’s haunting tick-tock.
I can’t see you, but I know you’re watching me;
This fog sneaking closer must be your breath.
The tapping on the rooftop; is it you, or the rain?
The blurred pane is as cold as the taciturn moon.
My eyes are drooping like a day-lily dying in the night,
and yet I want to open the door and meet you outside.
I’m tired but I must know more about this place;
I must know: am I finally home?
II.
My desk is always with me,
but still I sit straighter in a fold-out chair
and I am writing by the light of a brass desk lamp,
a captured moon, placed in my own night.
Can you see all of this?
Good. Keep looking.
My side is to you, so perhaps you did not notice
my right eye sagging, struggling to sleep.
When I think of you watching, the pen pauses on the page.
But I must write.
My deepest shadow slips through my fingers
and stains the white page.
I am cleaning it up.
Imagine you can see from the moon glow
the tapping of my feet.
They want to carry me over to the window
so I can close off these Venetian blinds.
This is the part of me wanting to hide from you
the approaching final lines.
You can see nothing else in my room
except the thin yellow outline of the light beyond my door.
I know you are waiting for something to happen,
thus I push back my chair, stand up, and walk over to you.
Our eyes are meeting this moment in quiet glass.
All I stand for is to break this silence.
“You think you know me,” I say,
“Well, who am I?”
III.
Even if you can’t see through the shadows
that drape across my room in wrinkled shapes,
I know the placement of every dark shoe and sweater.
Every necessity is within my reach.
The room’s darkness expands in the absence of light,
so tell me what you see, looking through this dark glass.
I can hide in this evening cloak
where dreams wait to surround my bedside
and entertain the black muses of the black moon.
Perhaps you wonder what I’m hiding from:
it’s a long night ahead of us;
there is an outside, where I control nothing.
The crawling darkness of the night was never my friend.
If you come to the door and knock, I may open up
and we can sit, talking by the light of candles.
But beyond these walls, we have no distinctive face
Silhouettes are strangers to be held in doubt.
Forgive me for my fears.
There are creatures lurking, this night.
Who knows what bears are prowling,
or readers, standing at my window?
---------------
So I was thinking to myself - as long as I'm posting old poetry, I might as well pick out an old poem every now and again to show and to think about. This one always makes me think because it's as much to me as it is to you. Part of the inspiration for this poem comes from Billy Collins' poem "Portrait of the Reader with a Bowl of Cereal". I didn't mean for this to be a three part poem - more like I wrote the poem 3 times on separate occasions because I kept feeling it. Often I take moments in time and expound on them, but here I create moments. Anyway, I really enjoy this poem and I hope you do too.
I.
I imagine, if you looked from where you are,
You could find me in a blue room,
Sitting one elbow on a mahogany desk
And holding a black ink pen, a ripped paper before me.
The azure carpet is littered with remainders:
A white suit to wear tomorrow,
A grey book whose pages long to be caressed,
And a small white note, telling me to phone home.
My sister’s paintings hang on the painted wall:
One with a silhouetted man confined to an autumn canvas,
The other of a girl standing before a dark mirror,
Seeing she isn’t beautiful, but a marsh grass green.
But you can’t know everything, only gazing in.
My floral bed sheets smell of burnt sugar and other failures;
the round clock resting above the doorway
continues to sound it’s haunting tick-tock.
I can’t see you, but I know you’re watching me;
This fog sneaking closer must be your breath.
The tapping on the rooftop; is it you, or the rain?
The blurred pane is as cold as the taciturn moon.
My eyes are drooping like a day-lily dying in the night,
and yet I want to open the door and meet you outside.
I’m tired but I must know more about this place;
I must know: am I finally home?
II.
My desk is always with me,
but still I sit straighter in a fold-out chair
and I am writing by the light of a brass desk lamp,
a captured moon, placed in my own night.
Can you see all of this?
Good. Keep looking.
My side is to you, so perhaps you did not notice
my right eye sagging, struggling to sleep.
When I think of you watching, the pen pauses on the page.
But I must write.
My deepest shadow slips through my fingers
and stains the white page.
I am cleaning it up.
Imagine you can see from the moon glow
the tapping of my feet.
They want to carry me over to the window
so I can close off these Venetian blinds.
This is the part of me wanting to hide from you
the approaching final lines.
You can see nothing else in my room
except the thin yellow outline of the light beyond my door.
I know you are waiting for something to happen,
thus I push back my chair, stand up, and walk over to you.
Our eyes are meeting this moment in quiet glass.
All I stand for is to break this silence.
“You think you know me,” I say,
“Well, who am I?”
III.
Even if you can’t see through the shadows
that drape across my room in wrinkled shapes,
I know the placement of every dark shoe and sweater.
Every necessity is within my reach.
The room’s darkness expands in the absence of light,
so tell me what you see, looking through this dark glass.
I can hide in this evening cloak
where dreams wait to surround my bedside
and entertain the black muses of the black moon.
Perhaps you wonder what I’m hiding from:
it’s a long night ahead of us;
there is an outside, where I control nothing.
The crawling darkness of the night was never my friend.
If you come to the door and knock, I may open up
and we can sit, talking by the light of candles.
But beyond these walls, we have no distinctive face
Silhouettes are strangers to be held in doubt.
Forgive me for my fears.
There are creatures lurking, this night.
Who knows what bears are prowling,
or readers, standing at my window?
---------------
So I was thinking to myself - as long as I'm posting old poetry, I might as well pick out an old poem every now and again to show and to think about. This one always makes me think because it's as much to me as it is to you. Part of the inspiration for this poem comes from Billy Collins' poem "Portrait of the Reader with a Bowl of Cereal". I didn't mean for this to be a three part poem - more like I wrote the poem 3 times on separate occasions because I kept feeling it. Often I take moments in time and expound on them, but here I create moments. Anyway, I really enjoy this poem and I hope you do too.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
The Gap
The Gap
A girl walks by on a crowded crosswalk
as the light flashes red.
Where are you looking?
Do you see the black silk of her hair
run like a river to the coming night?
Or the way her eyes don’t look at you
but at the billboard of another man
attached to a tall gray building?
The gap between you and her
is wider than you see, for you are a stranger.
Though you can almost grasp her hand,
she is a blur of beauty beyond your mind’s window
Clear your eyes.
And wherever you were looking,
notice now the tails of her long white coat:
the wings of a butterfly, flying away.
-----------
So, this is not a new poem (who said I could only post new poems?), but it's one that I found recently that I thought had been lost. I wrote it while being around several people who just talked so much about how "hot" certain girls were that it frustrated me. And as for the setting of the poem, I just remembered my time in Tokyo where there's one crossing where the most number of people cross per crossing (hundreds, maybe even thousands, I don't know. It sure looked like a lot). And then I revised the poem 7 times and got this, which I'm pretty satisfied with, but am still open to suggestions. I personally feel that it's one of my better poems. Then again, I like most of my own poetry... Hope you enjoy it!
A girl walks by on a crowded crosswalk
as the light flashes red.
Where are you looking?
Do you see the black silk of her hair
run like a river to the coming night?
Or the way her eyes don’t look at you
but at the billboard of another man
attached to a tall gray building?
The gap between you and her
is wider than you see, for you are a stranger.
Though you can almost grasp her hand,
she is a blur of beauty beyond your mind’s window
Clear your eyes.
And wherever you were looking,
notice now the tails of her long white coat:
the wings of a butterfly, flying away.
-----------
So, this is not a new poem (who said I could only post new poems?), but it's one that I found recently that I thought had been lost. I wrote it while being around several people who just talked so much about how "hot" certain girls were that it frustrated me. And as for the setting of the poem, I just remembered my time in Tokyo where there's one crossing where the most number of people cross per crossing (hundreds, maybe even thousands, I don't know. It sure looked like a lot). And then I revised the poem 7 times and got this, which I'm pretty satisfied with, but am still open to suggestions. I personally feel that it's one of my better poems. Then again, I like most of my own poetry... Hope you enjoy it!
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Blindness & Edits: massive post
A View of Blindness
I see clearly most of the time,
but other moments I look up
from the computer screen
or the book I’ve been musing
to see the people as faceless wanderers,
their features blurred together
as if time erased their expressions.
Smiles and frowns merge,
and if the eyes stare or wander,
or if tears bead up and roll down,
it’s all the same to me.
Surely blindness is a scary thing.
---------------
So this poem I wrote the other day as I was reading a book, looked up, and realized that things were a little fuzzy. Glasses sort of run in the family, so I wouldn't be surprised if one day I need them, but anyway, that's what led to this poem.
Now what follows are several poems that my mom helped me go over. She gives really great criticism and helps me bring the best out of my poems, so I hope you enjoy the changes I've made. If not, tell me so and why. Enjoy:
My Nights
I take a walk outside to get away from your absence.
The air is almost cold, but I sit on the old bench,
watching the lights go down in the neighborhood.
It’s nights like these I realize that the silence
is only for lack of listening:
a low hum in the sky, crickets chirping, a dog crying,
and somewhere a crowd is laughing.
The sounds are muffled, like the footsteps of shadows.
I listen for you. A car passes in the distance, then another.
The clock chimes and you aren’t here.
The streetlamps uncover few at this hour:
a student and a drunk, windless trees and empty benches.
All are empty; all are stagnant; all are weary.
My eyes are watchful and my hands are open. And you?
The group I heard before is making their way home.
The moon peers over their building with its lonely eye.
We are old friends. This is not the first night like this:
sitting in a lonely chair, or walking, or bicycling,
pensive or confused. The nights are numberless like the stars,
as beautiful as they are black, and as sleepless as the sounds I hear.
They have the touch of a friend leaving me behind.
These memories lull me to sleep, while the wonder keeps me awake.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this (I don’t want to),
this need to speak to myself of the night
when I wanted to tell you.
-------------
A Still Small Voice
When I hear a voice in my dream
with clear words, I wake up to darkness
and forget what was told me, seconds before.
I cannot see in the black bedroom,
but I wait, hoping to discern the shadows.
Nothing moves, even beyond my small window.
I remember someone calling out to me,
so I slide open the glass pane and listen:
a faint breeze, a passing car, and tired footsteps.
Another night, broken and restless,
my eyes are heavy and the moment’s lost.
Yet I whisper, “Wake me again; until I understand.”
------------
The Portraits of Silence
Silence is my demon of images opening the window
to a collage of fears, dreams to be doubted.
One isn’t thinking of me; the friendship shows
its face a garden whose flowers haven’t sprouted.
One is waiting to call me on the phone,
but the minute hand uncoils the feelings
into piles of uncertainty; I am left alone,
nervously eying the spots on the ceiling.
Another cries unashamed into stronger arms,
and I wish I could cry like that, free to choose
the release of emotion, an innocent charm.
Or that I had the strength that someone could use
to call upon in times of loneliness or need;
these demons wouldn’t torment me then.
Angels are encounters, the planting of seeds
for music to sound, filling my world again.
------------
Stranded
Listening to the sluicing of conversation,
the lull and roar of the passing minutes,
I am suddenly aware in the silence that drowns me.
I look across the room to see the crowds,
where one laughs and all laugh, and sometimes a shout.
Elsewhere a small group of friends tell the story
how they met someone over the weekend,
how they ought to call him or her sometime, maybe.
A young couple holds hands and forgets
the sounds around them which like waves
wash incessantly upon their solitary island.
And even more are stranded alone on their islands,
calling out, though no one hears them in the wind.
They light fires, wreck ships, run into the dangerous ocean
and still no one sees them or plans a rescue.
What is lost in the confusion of the waves?
These people are lost in a forgotten sea.
My cliffs are eroding; my shore is slipping away.
--------------
Going Back Alone
I remember watching the woods as they sunk into darkness.
As a child I left the others behind and went back alone.
The night was silent, except for the snapping of twigs,
the rustling and crunching of leaves, the pounding of my heart.
It couldn’t have been the wind, crossing my path by chance,
or rushing at me like blackness, or glaring with yellow eyes.
I couldn’t walk, but ran myself weary all the way down
mumbling to myself what hides in the moonlight.
And yet there was nothing, no one. I couldn’t stop stumbling
down the sloped trail, barely keeping balance.
Was it the shadows, or the silence that pushed me?
I saw the gray cage of trees; I heard the feet as they scattered.
Sometimes, I feel as lost, as hopeless as my childhood,
running alone in the dark, listening to myself breathe.
I still recognize inside the fear of never getting out again,
of never seeing the lit windows, or hearing the laughter of family.
I see clearly most of the time,
but other moments I look up
from the computer screen
or the book I’ve been musing
to see the people as faceless wanderers,
their features blurred together
as if time erased their expressions.
Smiles and frowns merge,
and if the eyes stare or wander,
or if tears bead up and roll down,
it’s all the same to me.
Surely blindness is a scary thing.
---------------
So this poem I wrote the other day as I was reading a book, looked up, and realized that things were a little fuzzy. Glasses sort of run in the family, so I wouldn't be surprised if one day I need them, but anyway, that's what led to this poem.
Now what follows are several poems that my mom helped me go over. She gives really great criticism and helps me bring the best out of my poems, so I hope you enjoy the changes I've made. If not, tell me so and why. Enjoy:
My Nights
I take a walk outside to get away from your absence.
The air is almost cold, but I sit on the old bench,
watching the lights go down in the neighborhood.
It’s nights like these I realize that the silence
is only for lack of listening:
a low hum in the sky, crickets chirping, a dog crying,
and somewhere a crowd is laughing.
The sounds are muffled, like the footsteps of shadows.
I listen for you. A car passes in the distance, then another.
The clock chimes and you aren’t here.
The streetlamps uncover few at this hour:
a student and a drunk, windless trees and empty benches.
All are empty; all are stagnant; all are weary.
My eyes are watchful and my hands are open. And you?
The group I heard before is making their way home.
The moon peers over their building with its lonely eye.
We are old friends. This is not the first night like this:
sitting in a lonely chair, or walking, or bicycling,
pensive or confused. The nights are numberless like the stars,
as beautiful as they are black, and as sleepless as the sounds I hear.
They have the touch of a friend leaving me behind.
These memories lull me to sleep, while the wonder keeps me awake.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this (I don’t want to),
this need to speak to myself of the night
when I wanted to tell you.
-------------
A Still Small Voice
When I hear a voice in my dream
with clear words, I wake up to darkness
and forget what was told me, seconds before.
I cannot see in the black bedroom,
but I wait, hoping to discern the shadows.
Nothing moves, even beyond my small window.
I remember someone calling out to me,
so I slide open the glass pane and listen:
a faint breeze, a passing car, and tired footsteps.
Another night, broken and restless,
my eyes are heavy and the moment’s lost.
Yet I whisper, “Wake me again; until I understand.”
------------
The Portraits of Silence
Silence is my demon of images opening the window
to a collage of fears, dreams to be doubted.
One isn’t thinking of me; the friendship shows
its face a garden whose flowers haven’t sprouted.
One is waiting to call me on the phone,
but the minute hand uncoils the feelings
into piles of uncertainty; I am left alone,
nervously eying the spots on the ceiling.
Another cries unashamed into stronger arms,
and I wish I could cry like that, free to choose
the release of emotion, an innocent charm.
Or that I had the strength that someone could use
to call upon in times of loneliness or need;
these demons wouldn’t torment me then.
Angels are encounters, the planting of seeds
for music to sound, filling my world again.
------------
Stranded
Listening to the sluicing of conversation,
the lull and roar of the passing minutes,
I am suddenly aware in the silence that drowns me.
I look across the room to see the crowds,
where one laughs and all laugh, and sometimes a shout.
Elsewhere a small group of friends tell the story
how they met someone over the weekend,
how they ought to call him or her sometime, maybe.
A young couple holds hands and forgets
the sounds around them which like waves
wash incessantly upon their solitary island.
And even more are stranded alone on their islands,
calling out, though no one hears them in the wind.
They light fires, wreck ships, run into the dangerous ocean
and still no one sees them or plans a rescue.
What is lost in the confusion of the waves?
These people are lost in a forgotten sea.
My cliffs are eroding; my shore is slipping away.
--------------
Going Back Alone
I remember watching the woods as they sunk into darkness.
As a child I left the others behind and went back alone.
The night was silent, except for the snapping of twigs,
the rustling and crunching of leaves, the pounding of my heart.
It couldn’t have been the wind, crossing my path by chance,
or rushing at me like blackness, or glaring with yellow eyes.
I couldn’t walk, but ran myself weary all the way down
mumbling to myself what hides in the moonlight.
And yet there was nothing, no one. I couldn’t stop stumbling
down the sloped trail, barely keeping balance.
Was it the shadows, or the silence that pushed me?
I saw the gray cage of trees; I heard the feet as they scattered.
Sometimes, I feel as lost, as hopeless as my childhood,
running alone in the dark, listening to myself breathe.
I still recognize inside the fear of never getting out again,
of never seeing the lit windows, or hearing the laughter of family.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Going Back Alone
Going Back Alone
I remember watching the woods as they sunk into darkness.
As a child I left the others behind and walked back alone.
The night was silent, except for the snapping of twigs,
or rustling and crunching of leaves, the pounding of my heart.
I didn’t imagine the wind, crossing my path by chance,
or rushing at me like blackness, or glaring with yellow eyes.
I didn’t walk for long, but ran all the way down
talking to myself as if surrounded by friends.
And yet there was nothing, no one. I couldn’t stop stumbling
down the sloped trail, barely keeping balance.
Was it the shadows, or the silence that pushed me?
I saw the trees as a gray cage; I heard the scattering of feet.
Sometimes, I feel as lost, as hopeless as my childhood,
running alone in the dark, listening to myself breathe.
I remember mainly the fear of never getting out again,
of never seeing the lit windows, or hearing the laughter of family.
-----------
Well here's another poem about silence. I guess it's something I've been thinking about lately. I don't like it and I don't think I ever have. This poem takes one of my childhood memories and relates it to today, how the same fears still apply, although perhaps in a different sense. The actual story is this: Some cousins, some siblings, and I were on top of Fake Thistle Hill in VT and as it was getting dark, I wanted to go back down before the woods got too dark, 'cause I was already scared of the dark, and even more so in Vermont because its so country and I imagined wolves and bears and such. However, no one else wanted to come back down at the time; they were doing something else like practicing throwing knives. So I started going down on my own. And then I started to run, running all the way as fast as I could, taking the shortest route down the hill, taking the path down to my Aunt Lydia's home, which was steep. And it wasn't easy because the trees are pretty thick and the trail wasn't that easy to see. I did eventually make it down, but it's one of my main memories of being scared of the dark.
I remember watching the woods as they sunk into darkness.
As a child I left the others behind and walked back alone.
The night was silent, except for the snapping of twigs,
or rustling and crunching of leaves, the pounding of my heart.
I didn’t imagine the wind, crossing my path by chance,
or rushing at me like blackness, or glaring with yellow eyes.
I didn’t walk for long, but ran all the way down
talking to myself as if surrounded by friends.
And yet there was nothing, no one. I couldn’t stop stumbling
down the sloped trail, barely keeping balance.
Was it the shadows, or the silence that pushed me?
I saw the trees as a gray cage; I heard the scattering of feet.
Sometimes, I feel as lost, as hopeless as my childhood,
running alone in the dark, listening to myself breathe.
I remember mainly the fear of never getting out again,
of never seeing the lit windows, or hearing the laughter of family.
-----------
Well here's another poem about silence. I guess it's something I've been thinking about lately. I don't like it and I don't think I ever have. This poem takes one of my childhood memories and relates it to today, how the same fears still apply, although perhaps in a different sense. The actual story is this: Some cousins, some siblings, and I were on top of Fake Thistle Hill in VT and as it was getting dark, I wanted to go back down before the woods got too dark, 'cause I was already scared of the dark, and even more so in Vermont because its so country and I imagined wolves and bears and such. However, no one else wanted to come back down at the time; they were doing something else like practicing throwing knives. So I started going down on my own. And then I started to run, running all the way as fast as I could, taking the shortest route down the hill, taking the path down to my Aunt Lydia's home, which was steep. And it wasn't easy because the trees are pretty thick and the trail wasn't that easy to see. I did eventually make it down, but it's one of my main memories of being scared of the dark.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Stranded
Stranded
Listening to the sluicing of conversation,
the lull and roar of the rushing minutes,
I am often drowned in the silence that surrounds me.
I look across the room to see the crowds,
where one laughs and all laugh, and sometimes one cries.
Elsewhere a small group of friends tell the story
how they met someone over the weekend,
how they ought to call him or her sometime, maybe.
A young couple holds hands and forgets
that the sounds around them are more than waves
crashing and breaking on their solitary island.
And even more are stranded alone on their islands,
calling out, though no one hears them in the wind.
They light fires, wreck ships, run into the dangerous ocean
and still no one sees them to extend a hand.
What is lost in the confusion of the rhythm of water?
My cliffs are eroding; my shore is slipping away.
------------
So I was sitting around waiting for some friends and decided to "just start writing" and this is basically what I got. I like it; I think it turned out pretty well. Funny though how I have certain themes that just tend to pop up more often than others in my poetry. i don't mean it, I swear; they just pop up. Anyway, I'm sure plenty of revision could help this turn from a good to a great poem, so help me out.
Listening to the sluicing of conversation,
the lull and roar of the rushing minutes,
I am often drowned in the silence that surrounds me.
I look across the room to see the crowds,
where one laughs and all laugh, and sometimes one cries.
Elsewhere a small group of friends tell the story
how they met someone over the weekend,
how they ought to call him or her sometime, maybe.
A young couple holds hands and forgets
that the sounds around them are more than waves
crashing and breaking on their solitary island.
And even more are stranded alone on their islands,
calling out, though no one hears them in the wind.
They light fires, wreck ships, run into the dangerous ocean
and still no one sees them to extend a hand.
What is lost in the confusion of the rhythm of water?
My cliffs are eroding; my shore is slipping away.
------------
So I was sitting around waiting for some friends and decided to "just start writing" and this is basically what I got. I like it; I think it turned out pretty well. Funny though how I have certain themes that just tend to pop up more often than others in my poetry. i don't mean it, I swear; they just pop up. Anyway, I'm sure plenty of revision could help this turn from a good to a great poem, so help me out.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Paper, Flying Away
Paper, Flying Away
It’s a difficult wind that gets below
and tries to blow my papers away.
All the clutter and important things I know
can’t be sorted this way.
And yet such thoughts keep entering my mind:
chasing down the flurry of white,
snow in summer, a folly to find,
though I should concentrate on what’s right.
Somewhere music floats on the breeze
and I could be dancing with air
holding as I am held with ease,
skipping in the grass without a care.
But I stay where I am, motionless, listening:
I can hear my heartbeat flutter in the sounds:
a father and son, throwing and catching,
and children kicking a ball around.
-------
So it's exam time again. I was outside with some friends who were studying away and I was just there because it was enjoyable to be with them, but I didn't really have anything to study. So I just started writing things down and eventually turned that mess into this, which is still probably a mess, but at least it rhymes now, as suggested by one of said friends. The basic idea I was trying to get at with the poem is the desire, somehow more prevalent when weighed down with things that you have to do, to go crazy. I don't think I'm the only one who daydreams like that every now and again. Not that I get any feedback from anyone, but I'll ask anyway - What do you like? What do you not like? Ideas? Thanks.
It’s a difficult wind that gets below
and tries to blow my papers away.
All the clutter and important things I know
can’t be sorted this way.
And yet such thoughts keep entering my mind:
chasing down the flurry of white,
snow in summer, a folly to find,
though I should concentrate on what’s right.
Somewhere music floats on the breeze
and I could be dancing with air
holding as I am held with ease,
skipping in the grass without a care.
But I stay where I am, motionless, listening:
I can hear my heartbeat flutter in the sounds:
a father and son, throwing and catching,
and children kicking a ball around.
-------
So it's exam time again. I was outside with some friends who were studying away and I was just there because it was enjoyable to be with them, but I didn't really have anything to study. So I just started writing things down and eventually turned that mess into this, which is still probably a mess, but at least it rhymes now, as suggested by one of said friends. The basic idea I was trying to get at with the poem is the desire, somehow more prevalent when weighed down with things that you have to do, to go crazy. I don't think I'm the only one who daydreams like that every now and again. Not that I get any feedback from anyone, but I'll ask anyway - What do you like? What do you not like? Ideas? Thanks.
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