What makes poetry work?
Is it the sound of words?
What euphony without discord
What beauty without opposites,
When a frozen sun melts into a crimson sky,
Or when the poet talks about
Scenes that made moments mean,
Or moments tied together to make up a scene.
Is it the contemplating of your place in the world,
Or a place where the world is still together?
The beauty in fragments is only found
When fragments is all that is left.
Does the poet seek an answer,
Or does the poet know that there are none?
Just yourself among broken things,
Trying to find
Or maybe poetry is all about
Leaving one naked and exposed.
Words that strip your soul
Until you are empty, hollow,
Waiting for something new,
Till the next one leaves you emptier still.
What if poetry is all about destroying yourself
To create that one moment of pure art.
Is that not what it’s all about?
(Based on a short story I’m working on)
The sight of green and yellow in a frightless dance,
Like scattered bulbs among bushes.
The warmth of the glow, in a winter’s night,
Where one is lonely no more.
The smell of a thousand sunny days,
Or of some wonderful flower of unknown ways.
And at once the awareness of your existence,
Of weakness and strength seeping into your conscience.
What separates fantasy from real?
When the skin gleams under the moonlight,
The hair that burns among fireflies,
A moment of eternity captured in the mind.
They guide you through the path, they show you the way home,
With flashes and glimpses, bright and dim.
Bodies like drops of honey under the sun,
Or a city lit up at a distance.
Did you shudder at the sight?
Do you tremble at the touch?
Does the flame glow bright behind your eyes?
Have you seen your firefly?
What beauty in chaos, wonder in disharmony;
What art in flames, the hidden serenity.
It is what makes them different;
It is what makes her different.
A mystery of neon wilderness.
And the tears we shed alone at night,
Of the joy and delight at the sight
Of a figure divine, conjured from a vision once lost
Of her that was your half
But it was just a dream.
The fingers that touch the infant’s head,
The infant that suckles without a fright
At the moment when body and soul become one,
And mother and child know peace
Yet it was just a dream.
We know what it means to be free,
Unshackled, unchained, unbroken
Each in his own room, that which we call home
There is no prison, no wall to break
And it was just a dream.
Tired of the ennui and monotony,
I’m trying to break free from me.
And I lie awake some nights remembering
A history of life in one scene
And it was all a dream.
Call for consciousness. Are we awake yet?
The alarm rings, yet we choose to snooze.
Ten minutes more. Now five.
Maybe if I sleep some more,
I might awake from this dream.
I feel we live in a time where existentialism has a new meaning, or maybe just paraphrased a little. It’s not the one that Sartre spoke of or what Camus wrote about. The world is no longer absurd or meaningless. Everything is clear, we see it every day. It’s not that we can’t find a purpose in life as well. Indeed there is a lot to look forward, a lot of ways to make a meaning out of your life, defining yourself and perhaps doing some good in the end. But sometimes the world is just too big and sometimes you feel too small, really small. There is a lot going on in the world today, suffocating and packed is what I feel. It’s like being forcefully shoved into a locker or more realistically speaking, a crowded bus. Of suffocating and helplessness; helplessness and pain; pain and suffering; suffering and suffocating. The endless cycle that we live in and the world still grows bigger and I feel small, tiny, like a speck of dust or a drop of blood, whichever you see first. Dostoevsky (that existentialist before existentialism was cool) said that mans stubbornness to prove his point is why the world is what it is. The answer then, my friend, is perhaps a little less stubbornness.
A part of me, a big part of me, wants to remain small, unknown, oblivious and numb. For what would happen if we started to feel, I dare ask. Having a few close ones, friends who share your ideologies, just a handful to take me through life is enough. Being known is daunting, it’s scary. In a world where internet and social media has made everyone more vocal, do you ever find someone being loved unanimously? And who wants to run that risk of being loved when there is so much hate in the world. God would probably hate the internet. But these paragraphs seem disconnected, absurd even. My mind, when speaking on this topic, is particularly incoherent.
Why do we have that one room that’s all our own? That one room you can always go to when the world gets too much to take. It’s in this room that you feel like you’re back in an empty dream, alone and at peace, not having to share it with anybody, not letting anyone in. Why is it that we need this room? The answer might be a little biased coming from an introvert. But then again, in a new age of existentialism, aren’t more people just like me? I could be wrong and I probably lost a few readers on my way today. But the few that stayed on may have found something. A few, I’ve always liked a few. A few is what I need to get through life. So to the few out there reading this, I’m glad you exist.
A history of insensitivity and atrophy,
We stand together, numb;
Leather for skin, bile for blood,
But my cat outside is oblivious,
Coiled on a porch, she sings, “same as tomorrow?”
We are the crumbs of a dying world,
Of stale vegetables swept under a rug,
A child screams through the night, voices which fade under the sun.
C’est la vie, my cat says,
Licking her fur and a gentle shrug.
Or is there hope yet, for a new kind of death,
One where pain is but at the end,
And should we wake up tomorrow?
My cat, she yawns,
No toll has taken her, no sorrow.
Or should we cease to imagine,
Will reality become a dream?
Can we wake in the middle and continue down that magnificent stream?
Or should we trade places, for a moment fleeting,
For look at my cat, she is sleeping.