2014 … and still stuck on the same thing

So the morning of 2014 has dawned, and, as expected, things are very much the same. There is stifling snow outside the window and most people are probably slightly hung over (which is probably the only unusual thing for a Wednesday morning). Things are much the same for me too. My new year’s resolution (or intention as some might have it) is to write a little something every day. This isn’t it, by the way. I wrote a couple of pages in my journal this morning, but I still feel that sort of thing is too personal to share. Not to denigrate anyone’s personal blog of their feelings, but this has never really been mine.

It seems I am still stuck on the same person that occupied a lot of my thoughts for 2013. Perhaps this year, things will change somehow, but I don’t really see how. As Sylvia Plath said,’each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness’. Yes, that is probably out of context. On the other hand, Herman Hesse wrote “Doesn’t your learning reveal to you that the reason why I please you and mean so much to you is because I am a kind of looking glass for you, because there’s something in me that answers you and understands you?” I think this is from Steppenwolf.

So we shall see what 2014 has to offer. Perhaps it is too early to expect change. Change is something that requires time, just like healing. Change can come from unexpected areas, and I shall try to be optimistic.

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Villanelle

I recently had a prompt.. or exercise, whichever you prefer, to write a Villanelle. The form is an old one, but I’ve always enjoyed writing them. In this case I had to write two before I did one that I thought was acceptable.

Another day she can’t erase
A frail ghost of an aging plea
She turns away to hide her face

I can still imagine every place
We ran, every leaf on every tree
She turns away to hide her face

She leaped and spun infinite grace
And, simply put, I turned to flee
Another day she can’t erase

O fair foundation where to base
My ruin, darkness comes to me
She turns away to hide her face

And now, alone, I flit and pace
Whisper ‘to be or not to be’
Another day I can’t erase

I drift without her in this barren space
If I could… but never would foresee
She turns away to hide her face

She is gone without a trace
Without her I am failing by degree
Another day I can’t erase

But we have had our last embrace
We wade through the debris
Another day she can’t erase
She turns away to hide her face

The longest day

I hope that this signals a return to writing for me. As always when I start writing again, the words are reluctant to emerge at first…

There is no longer

In this space

the comfort of a young voice

it’s going to be a long day

there is no longer

in this space

a face in that Puck-like pose, that impish insult and perfect eye

it’s going to be a long day

there is no longer

in this space

a bouquet of unsaid words that became said

there is no longer

in this space

a reach into my chest

a grasping

and, lastly, a pull

like blinds coming down

cannot block out the purple fire

of sunset

it was such a long day

Pointless little love poem

Unrequited love is perhaps the easiest but most tragic form of love. Easiest because it requires no maintenance, it is not subject to fights or to lulls. It is constant, unwavering as it is unforgiving. But it is also deeply tragic. This is a pointless little love poem I’m working on for my unrequited love.

 

every day I look at your eyes

reflected in a million pixels

you are made of darkness

those monochrome angels

all lined up in you

 

and I fall like icarus

from the sun in your eyes

reflected in a million pixels

dramatic as bullet holes

 

I cannot exist out on the streets

I cannot sing the protest songs

I cannot move from this prone state of pensiveness

I cannot face the day

Without those eyes

Miracles and idols

Green like spring under all that snow

Editing poetry: Clean

notes etc. in the original post…

It is so easy to fix things,
Tilex, Mr. Clean, sponge, toothbrush,
Knees and wrinkled fingers, red eyes and a hard hand.

Laughing and scrubbing as the stainless steel screams,
Slowly turning, silver and perfect, trapped in your place,
Wanting nothing. [(one breath)]

Everything spotless, the anger drains down the plughole,
Wipes away with the streaks on the mirror,
The dust, the terror of hairs,
Spray and wash,
Damned spot.

If only it were that easy to fix things,
With hands, dirt, voices, weeping,
Cheeks and wrinkled fingers, red eyes and a hard heart.

via Editing poetry: Clean.