exorcism

Nothing like writing for getting those inner demons out. Actually I wrote a couple new poems tonight. One came in a fit of frustrated boredom - I was restless & aggravated & casting about for something constructive to do - and lo and behold this line popped into my head and I sat down & wrote a poem. I still need to sleep on it, but maybe I'll post it tomorrow morning (if it doesn't suck).

Anyway, it definitely feels like one of those nights where I have an overabundance of creative energy. When my writing starts seeking ways to come out, sometimes it can go in odd directions. Hence the following pantoum, which is tonight's other new poem. I love pantoums; the challenge is really worth it, when it works. It's a form of poetry that originated in Malaysia. The really badass poets will make theirs rhyme, but the crucial thing is the pattern of line repetition.

Caught

I roam from window to empty window
a restless ghost caught in currents of thought.
I wait for snow that will not fall
count endless minutes in the night.

A restless ghost, caught in currents of thought
I trace invisible patterns on the windowpane
count the endless minutes in the night,
narrow my eyes against the sun’s next rising.

I trace invisible patterns on the windowpane
my fingers fret and fold the blankets square;
I narrow my eyes against the sun’s next rising
try to will the ongoing, ever-deepening night.

My fingers fret and fold the blankets square
I place useless objects in a useless order,
try to will the ongoing, ever-deepening night
to stay firm, hold fast, but it slips through my hand.

I place useless objects in a useless order
wait for something to make deeper sense at last,
to stay firm, hold fast, but it slips through my hand,
leaving me restless and thoughtful again.

I wait for something to make deeper sense; at last
there are only a few final truths left to face.
They leave me restless, thoughtful again
watching the clouds, backlit by a half-moon.

There are only a few final truths left to face.
I wait for snow that will not fall
watching the clouds, backlit by a half-moon.
I roam from window to empty window.

Before I got into the pantoum, I thought I'd work on some previous poetry & settled on one that's been nagging at me. It still needs some work, but after messing with it for the last hour, it's gotten a lot closer.

I used to be beautiful

Long did I laugh in my days of youth
and I danced like the wings of the air.
I trusted the promise life whispered,
trod the twists of my path without fear.

“You’re beautiful,” strangers would say
as if in a dream, caught off guard.
I moved in joy, sang to the wind;
blithe and blind to Time’s vagaries.

Then my daughter, my first child,
died in my womb.
And suddenly

I was not the golden leaf shining bright
but a faded skeleton crumbling into winter.

And I was no longer beautiful.
I was invisible.

For who is left to mourn
but what is left behind.
A skeleton, crumbling
to invisible air.

Long did I laugh in the days of my youth
and the world lived for beauty, and I
loved the living of it. But the dying,
the dying of beauty is a hard thing.

And what was left behind, in Time,
you would not want to see at all.