July poetry, 15-17
Here are some more poems. One came to me suddenly, one is a continuation of a february poem and the other is a run-on sentence.
xv. something has changed
I want to have déjà vu.
I want to hear broken french
to impress me.
at the core, everything
occurs
identical:
crinkle sheets, corners
of car parks
quiet & black,
powerlines & bureaus,
slips & bruises in
showers, rain showers,
watching the snow,
the eighth floor,
anywhere but the ground.
locked eyes,
whispered lies
(or secrets)
and you can still see
where I burned my left knee
on the couch.
I want to open my eyes again
to another city too big for me,
another sunbeam striped across
another face and you tell me.
I've heard it before but
I want to have déjà vu.
~
xvi. eyes-closed existentialism
I have been inviting the ghost
of sad søren
into my dreams again
for tea,
but he has been avoiding
my calls.
and we have so much to talk about.
I fear that simone has killed him
with a broken heart,
my søren; living (as a ghost does)
always with his thoughts
in a different space than/
in a different time than
his body (as a ghost lives)
simply for love
must have slowly, surely
killed him (as a ghost dies).
but could it have been
any other way?
I do not want to learn from you,
sad søren.
I want to take my chances.
we could be happy.
~
xvii. lighthousekeeping
keep a collection in your basement of clear jars, thick jars, unbreakable, stoppered tight and full brimming, keep a collection of your fears your sadness your most awful secrets your most terrible thoughts, keep them labeled in thick ink, keep them sorted keep count keep count keep constant count lest someone try to steal your blues away, keep your constant vigil, you are a lighthouse standing watch, you are the light struggling through the fog that comes from nowhere that is endless that swirls about your head, and now you cannot feel the crashing spilling splashing, you can only witness, spinning, round, and round, alone on a pinnacle, invisible in the daylight, your wick is burning low and fraying in the wind, its neverending dance, how it surrounds you and taunts you with its ease of being and once you swear you heard something on the updraft: you did this to yourself.
~
In January of last year I was reading a lot of existential philosophers (and a lot of philosophy in general) as a byproduct of my English 12 final paper. I would have these dreams where Søren Kierkegaard would visit me and we would chat about nothings, which made us feel better about our somethings. I knew it was him by his hair and his accent. He was in love with Simone de Beauvoir (and I expect he is still in love) but as we all know, Simone only had eyes for Jean-Paul Sartre.
I had an existential love triangle in my dreams. I have not heard from Søren in a while now but I remembered him yesterday because our talks are resonating with me again.
xv. something has changed
I want to have déjà vu.
I want to hear broken french
to impress me.
at the core, everything
occurs
identical:
crinkle sheets, corners
of car parks
quiet & black,
powerlines & bureaus,
slips & bruises in
showers, rain showers,
watching the snow,
the eighth floor,
anywhere but the ground.
locked eyes,
whispered lies
(or secrets)
and you can still see
where I burned my left knee
on the couch.
I want to open my eyes again
to another city too big for me,
another sunbeam striped across
another face and you tell me.
I've heard it before but
I want to have déjà vu.
~
xvi. eyes-closed existentialism
I have been inviting the ghost
of sad søren
into my dreams again
for tea,
but he has been avoiding
my calls.
and we have so much to talk about.
I fear that simone has killed him
with a broken heart,
my søren; living (as a ghost does)
always with his thoughts
in a different space than/
in a different time than
his body (as a ghost lives)
simply for love
must have slowly, surely
killed him (as a ghost dies).
but could it have been
any other way?
I do not want to learn from you,
sad søren.
I want to take my chances.
we could be happy.
~
xvii. lighthousekeeping
keep a collection in your basement of clear jars, thick jars, unbreakable, stoppered tight and full brimming, keep a collection of your fears your sadness your most awful secrets your most terrible thoughts, keep them labeled in thick ink, keep them sorted keep count keep count keep constant count lest someone try to steal your blues away, keep your constant vigil, you are a lighthouse standing watch, you are the light struggling through the fog that comes from nowhere that is endless that swirls about your head, and now you cannot feel the crashing spilling splashing, you can only witness, spinning, round, and round, alone on a pinnacle, invisible in the daylight, your wick is burning low and fraying in the wind, its neverending dance, how it surrounds you and taunts you with its ease of being and once you swear you heard something on the updraft: you did this to yourself.
~
In January of last year I was reading a lot of existential philosophers (and a lot of philosophy in general) as a byproduct of my English 12 final paper. I would have these dreams where Søren Kierkegaard would visit me and we would chat about nothings, which made us feel better about our somethings. I knew it was him by his hair and his accent. He was in love with Simone de Beauvoir (and I expect he is still in love) but as we all know, Simone only had eyes for Jean-Paul Sartre.
I had an existential love triangle in my dreams. I have not heard from Søren in a while now but I remembered him yesterday because our talks are resonating with me again.