there is good news, and there is bad news. They are the same news.
So.
I think I have ended up finding my poetic voice, somewhere between November and now. (Yeah, I'm doing the poem-a-day thing, and yeah...you haven't heard much about it!)
A. Alvarez was right.
It can be dismaying. Horrifying, even.
I think all my poems since I realized that a few days ago have been a little dull, because I haven't learned to ignore it, yet. But I will! Oh, will I.
Here's the thing: it's kind of...mundane. Or at least quiet, and simple. It's not a matter of the style of the poem itself I am writing, but a consciousness of my self as I am writing that is honest. And apparently, when I am honest, I am uncaffeinated. I am too sardonic for hyperbole, but too innocent for bitterness.
I could be wrong, you know, and at 40 (a much more appropriate age) come into a much more masterful self that has a voice rich and colorful--but I'm not counting on it.
3-20: Poetizing
You must be tired of my nature poems.
The same moon-crush, stretching for words
To convey, really, this time, that blue
And the blue against it and the next shadow
You know I'll be in hysterics during fall
And try to sharpen the smell of the leaves
Even more, and spice them, and raise their dead
While metaphors of death chatter round with hope.
The original green that I stared at
Is always fresh with hope on St. Patrick's
For my birthday to gleam and I want all to know
How happy the color is-let me tell you.
You must be used to these words by now
The cycles of melancholy and mania
The way I never change, though I age
And only seem to become moreso.
What were you thinking about today?
Did you see a car you've loved since your dad
Took you to kindergarten, or eyes that slay you,
Maybe taste your coffee-all creamer, with a pinch of salt.
I can love new things with you.
Will you tell me? Or did I take too long
Poetizing on my own obsessions again?
Are you as blank as your silence?
The moon right now is so gorgeous...
I wish I could describe it for you.
I think I have ended up finding my poetic voice, somewhere between November and now. (Yeah, I'm doing the poem-a-day thing, and yeah...you haven't heard much about it!)
A. Alvarez was right.
It can be dismaying. Horrifying, even.
I think all my poems since I realized that a few days ago have been a little dull, because I haven't learned to ignore it, yet. But I will! Oh, will I.
Here's the thing: it's kind of...mundane. Or at least quiet, and simple. It's not a matter of the style of the poem itself I am writing, but a consciousness of my self as I am writing that is honest. And apparently, when I am honest, I am uncaffeinated. I am too sardonic for hyperbole, but too innocent for bitterness.
I could be wrong, you know, and at 40 (a much more appropriate age) come into a much more masterful self that has a voice rich and colorful--but I'm not counting on it.
3-20: Poetizing
You must be tired of my nature poems.
The same moon-crush, stretching for words
To convey, really, this time, that blue
And the blue against it and the next shadow
You know I'll be in hysterics during fall
And try to sharpen the smell of the leaves
Even more, and spice them, and raise their dead
While metaphors of death chatter round with hope.
The original green that I stared at
Is always fresh with hope on St. Patrick's
For my birthday to gleam and I want all to know
How happy the color is-let me tell you.
You must be used to these words by now
The cycles of melancholy and mania
The way I never change, though I age
And only seem to become moreso.
What were you thinking about today?
Did you see a car you've loved since your dad
Took you to kindergarten, or eyes that slay you,
Maybe taste your coffee-all creamer, with a pinch of salt.
I can love new things with you.
Will you tell me? Or did I take too long
Poetizing on my own obsessions again?
Are you as blank as your silence?
The moon right now is so gorgeous...
I wish I could describe it for you.