I wonder where the train winds in the distance,
for I hear its soulful mourning, lead cadence
pounding o’er the hum of crickets in the dark,
but I have never seen.
Sight is muted in a liquid night, hands’ touch
aimless. One can grope for sight, endless,such
that hours, weeks, a lifetime pass all for naught but
futile clutchings, life’s mean.
And the train goes on, and there is no wisdom
in its cry but true beauty in its kingdom
of static impermanence. Steel grinds on steel,
tracing great paths in soil.
Indifferent, all of it. Earth and metal,
flaxen stalk of wheat, flourishing weed and nettle.
These do not seek meaning in a train’s loud wail,
these do not seek to see.
These follow their natures as do we, blindly
groping for meaning in sky and ground, wildly
hoping we are not left to our own lost minds
to seek meaning from voids.
About Me
- FIERI
- Mad Girl's Love Song -Sylvia Plath I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.) The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.) God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan's men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I fancied you'd return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.) I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
6 comments:
this is my first REAL poem. and i am very excited. and want to write more and more. but i guess i'll read stupid effing bio. lol.
*talks to self like a crazy person*
You're writing!!!
YAY!!!!!!!!!!
I'm not sure what you mean by "real poem."
Why aren't your other poems "real?"
Hm...
I guess I don't know! Just that my other poetry didn't seem to be as put together and structured, or to have any good flow...and were based so much on my own mind that they were probably more stream of consciousness or something than actual poetry. I just know I've been frustrated for a while writing prose stuff that should have been poems, and I actually took the time and tried here and it finally came out as a poem instead of as random clusters of thought.
Thank you for the question. haha. I'll be thinking.
Ok. I have thought more about this.
I'm thinking back to this poem I wrote in highschool. I think it was shortly after my classmate had died. And I was sitting next to his empty seat,which brings with it the weight of death-death in youth, and the funeral, and the events afterward-seeing a friend of mine, someone who shares a piece of my soul, being brutalized- staring at this poster of JD Salinger, which automatically brings with it all of the weight of the novel Catcher in the Rye, plus the quote on it, right? and really just gone in thought. I had this crazy connection of thought just going and going and going everything coming together and then I was thinking about life and space and all of this stuff, and later I wrote a poem about it.
But see how even that block of text up there is really hard to connect to if you aren't me, and haven't lived that and felt it?
So I wrote this poem, and it meant SO much to me.
But it- in and of itself- is meaningless. It is nonsensical. It has some flow, but it means nothing. Nothing to anyone but myself.And while it served a purpose, and an important one, in terms of helping me process things- or being the end of a whole process, it is not a valuable piece of writing. It failed in what I was trying to accomplish, which was to somehow convey the weight of that moment for me. It had no context in shared reality.
SO.
I think that's the answer.
...sort of.
that's part of the answer.
lol.
i'm in one of those buzzing with thought times again.
Post a Comment