A Word on Poetry.

I've never been the best poet. Poetry is simply one of those things that I've never tried to be good at. Not because it doesn't interest me; quite the opposite is true. But reading and writing poems serve two different purposes for me. When reading, I like to appreciate the subtle, meandering way that each word flows into the next. I notice the metaphors, the wordplay, the rhythm.

But writing poems is another story entirely. I write poems when I can't find the words to say, or when I grow tired of my own rambling monologue. It's my way of capturing moments in my life for me to tuck away until later. And when I read them again days, weeks, months later, it's like finding an old photograph that I never knew had been taken. Which means that, inevitably, some of them are downright embarrassing... while others seem to take my breath away. I never studied poetry as an English major, because I don't want my writing to seem too deliberate. I want it to be raw, real, and simple. I don't need it to be good; I need it to be truthful.

Here are some poems I wrote last spring:

4.11.10

for all my talking, 

for all my sneers and laughs

I find myself in a rather

unappealing position,

in which I wake up wondering 

how it might have happened that I am the one

gritting my teeth, my reflection tinted green, 

like the grass

where he’s standing

4.14.10

it's taken all day

to write this poem

backspacebackspacebackspace

but if this were a pencil,

and you were a line

erase erase erase

5.6.10: a retrospective

to live this way is to live on the edge of 

insanity, the brink of profundity,

where every gesture, every thought, every

twitch and jerk has meaning.

it's sitting in the sunlight and

suddenly getting that anxious feeling, like

this is dangerous

this is

terrifying

but it won't stop; it goes on 

like the cycle of days, and suddenly it's monday again, 

and time becomes endless,

abstract, irrelevent.

i twitch and i squeal with the

discomfort of knowing that this is all

wrong. 

i'm staring down at the abyss

as we fall, endlessly, until

it engulfs us so decidedly that we can hardly tell

that we're moving at all.

it's that manic feeling of watching my

limbs move of their own accord, knowing and

fearing what disasterous result lies beneath us

within us

within you.

try as i might, i can't stop

so you let loose your sinister smile and I 

look the other way.

5.8.10

I am a mystery, even to me;

the kind that wriggles and twists in

the most unpleasant ways,

meandering through the very

fibers of my being that attempt to

drive it away.

I don't send signals; I say what I mean to say.

But not always.

5.12.10

I have a secret

at least, that's what I'm supposed to say

when in reality, it's just another thing

that I haven't told you yet.

And while we wander down these roads,

twisting, and turning, and snaking our way

to an unknown end, I can't help but wonder

(in a nervous kind of way)

if I should take a wrong turn.

Would you follow? Perhaps--

but I am more than what you see. 

Take me at my worst,

but the worst I'll never be.

5.19.10

we renew ourselves each day

and while the same sun kisses our cheeks,

it sheds a new light upon old things

until we can no longer recognize them for

what they once were.

we each take our breaths, basking in these moments, 

their essences lingering

while substance may fade.

through these changes we grow, intertwined

like the roots of neighboring trees;

i can no longer guess at what is you

and what is me.

keep still-- hold on with me,

for the days we lose are moments we gain

and as for infinity, well

i'll be satisfied just to hear you say

i love you, always