Embarassing Poetry Part 2

Yes! It's that time again. For me to disappear into the deepest ocean trench I can find, that is. On second thought, it's not worth the trouble to be so dramatic...that's probably what got me into this situation in the first place--writing terrible angsty poetry. If I had to choose a favourite way of ceasing to exist, it would be to dissolve quietly into the air, with every atom choosing to go its own separate way, without any fuss whatsoever. But you can only choose (and perform) one way of ceasing to exist, whereas you can choose many different ways of living your life...well, most of us get a choice, one would hope.

Right, the digression is over. Here is an actual scrawling on a piece of foolscap in one of my angst-driven phases:

********

liquid silence in a soupbowl rises to reclaim the sound
sloshing warily with no spoon to stir
and no ear hears it--
only pure, hallowed, unrecorded sound.

Black and screaming silence.

The silence is too deep for me to climb out of.
I live on the inside of my life.
Waiting in the dark for death, or do you just
run, or scream waiting to wake up in the light that never comes?
Curtains are forever drawn. Shut out the light,
Shut out the light. It does not return. But the silence pours in again, stifling the screams. A nightmare flutters on the inside of my mind and I can't wake up. It's a dream where I'm pouring water into a jar but it goes out with a gurgle, and no matter how fast, no matter how much I pour--it's never enough. It will never be enough. Sink into the desperation of the dream.

Dark and mazy. Dark and mazy. I am blind. Nothing. I am wandering in the dark. The dark. The following dark. The dark that follows and surrounds. Fitful darkness of the mind.

*******
The rest is silence.
.
.
.
.
.
.

But then I start talking again, haha. I promise you I have never, ever done drugs in my life. Though when I look at it even I think I sound high. Probably high on emotion. It induces the same chemicals or something? Let me tell you, one of the biggest scares I ever gave myself was when I found myself laughing uncontrollably at being told that Sylvia Plath killed herself by sticking her head in an oven. I can get high on water, given the right cirumstances.

Anyway, there are several lit references there. Shall not go all technical and explain them, but will point out that the poem breaks down into prose halfway through. Go figure.

Two Deaths

This first one is undated. I can't remember how old I was when I wrote it. This is for someone who did live every day as if it was the best in her life. At least, it seems so to me; I only knew her a number of years.

The second poem commemorates another death. There should be one more, but by the time the third happened I had stopped writing poetry. It took me almost a year to shed tears for the third. And it will take a little more time before I can write something for that one.

********
I

We were in her house, every one of us
around her lidless oblong box--
and she was in it.
Then they carried her and marched,
Stiff, stark black and sombre
Like ants, if I were a giant.
But how slow their steps;
A dead march for the dead.

II

No tears were shed--
"You must be strong," they said,
My uncles the pallbearers.
"Why shouldn't I cry?" asked I;
I said so to my brother.
"Hush! Show some respect," he said;
his hand it squeezed mine tighter.
The box led us into the church
until the pews, to the altar.
And she held it all to herself,
Her my dead grandmother.

III
Then all stood up as if to go,
Their lips were white
Their hands were cold.
White and pale, like wraiths themselves,
They walked up front to say goodbye--
"Goodbye, we love you but we cannot cry."
I tiptoed to see her--
She had a secret smile
And her lips were painted red.
Her dress was blue
and lilies crowned her head.
"Why should we cry?" asked I,
"She seems so happy to be dead.:
But no one heard; they were busy.
Their ears were shut, their lips were screwed,
All screwed shut and screaming.
I dragged my feet back to the pews
While a lid was put in place.

***********

We took them to the sea.
"Toss them in deep,"
he said.
Let the bones dance
in deep darkness
While the boats go
overhead.

************

Don't crack your head over "deep darkness." Weak, meaningless metaphor in this instance. The first poem also shows an interest in ants--that might help date it at around the same time as the "scrittle" poem.

After writing this post, I realize that revealing this poetry is not so much embarassing as it is painful. Remembering what I thought and felt in those moments--a poem crystallizes it for eternity. You think writing poetry is a good form of emotional release, but the trick is on you, for it gives the emotion a tangible shape that can be relived. In endless playback. But then again, you could also say that it pins the emotion in a "formulated phrase," trapping what might have otherwise continued rampaging through the soul.