The public library tells me that April is National Poetry Month. Since this blog has morphed into a creative writing blog anyway, I might as well make it official.
I’m going to try to write a poem every day in April. That’s a much more consistent blogging schedule than I’ve kept to date, and consistent creative writing is something I’ve never done before. I’d like to see what comes of it.
You’ve been warned.
She and I have an understanding.
Before the sun is up,
we begin our journies at a common starting line.
We’ve never spoken of our destinations.
We are on different schedules
at the same times.
We do not chit-chat.
We do not criticize.
We do not even know each other’s names.
Instead, we simply, subtly nod.
We acknowledge each other —
respect each other’s strengths
and act as silent encouragement
while we push away our weaknesses.
We are all business
until our paths converge once more
at the exit.
Then, the nod is accompanied
by a tired (but genuine) smile —
because she and I have an understanding.
Each time I sit and try to write a verse,
My sentiments sound more and more perverse.
My stomach drops with each new failed attempt;
my writing style, once ordered, now unkempt.
The fact that makes me even more berserk
is I’ve no trouble writing verse for work.
It’s only when I strike out on my own
that nothing seems to have the proper tone.
The sabotage may all be in my head —
verse makes me feel like everything that’s said
has been reduced by Dr. Seuss to be
simple, childish, just not written by me.
Let verse submit and give me room to grow
into the likes of Edgar Allan Poe!
(Yet by complaining, I have to confess:
I’ve had at least some measure of success.)
She takes one of two forms:
First, Calliope —
the war god’s lover.
Second, Erato —
lighter of the flame of eros
in every heart.
In either case,
she inspires —
she has mastered the art
of creating something
out of nothing.
But no amount of inspiration —
either wisdom or beauty —
can tip the scales
when the artist is focused
on turning something
You don’t do anything halfway.
You’re either aflame —
impassioned, burning, and in rapid motion —
or you’re frozen —
reserved, cold, unnervingly still.
Truly, you manage to be both:
frigid at the poles and boiling in the middle.
We reach, knowing the danger
of making contact.
But you’ve always been so much faster
than the rest of us,
it’s no wonder that your movement
is felt less than your stillness.
It’s the stillness that makes the rest of us feel
that something is amiss;
like the powerful current you’ve built up
has finally hit the dam.
I, for one, am quite glad
you’re no longer retrograde —
I enjoy the flow
much more than the ebb.