I'm leaving tonight,
slipping out through frozen winter air.
This is the first time
that I'm not running away.
I blinked yesterday.
I opened
my eyes in a moment of hope,
so strange and swirling through
cracked ice and the sharp Connecticut wind.
I will be train-riding
south in the gathering dawn,
going home.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
A Slam Poem for Those Who Live Quietly
Here's another of the poems which came out of the portfolio. I'm going to try and get this one recorded - it's a very visceral poem.
Life
When grief and loneliness
pile up inside, creeping vile,
from the pit of churning insecurity
to spill out your mouth and eyes - smother heart –
life is the brilliant thing which will show up to ravage you -
make you whole. It comes
as poetry of time and place,
found in passionate voice
that sets a room on fire,
or leaves it quaking
in sudden silence.
Life is what we see in the slanting shade
of every memory we’ve made –
all that we’ve seen, replayed
in perfect glinting moments,
tiny and shifting and
full of a strength won in blood. Layering
muscle onto frame,
never ask for less of a burden,
only wider shoulders.
We beat the steel of our hearts new,
pounding and pounding in flame,
re-forging with every loss.
When life cracks you one across the jaw,
it is only to remind you that men
don’t go down easy.
That anyone can be strong on a good day.
I save my strength for the days
when the only thing you can do
is to stand back up and stare life down,
to yell through clenched teeth
and blood sweat,
“You god-damned son of a bitch!”
Life is determined to keep breaking me down
to the fiery knot inside my gut that pulses
and reminds me why I choose to live life
honestly. To love,
and never be ashamed.
Life is a rainstorm through clenched teeth –
We drink down what we can keep.
Life
When grief and loneliness
pile up inside, creeping vile,
from the pit of churning insecurity
to spill out your mouth and eyes - smother heart –
life is the brilliant thing which will show up to ravage you -
make you whole. It comes
as poetry of time and place,
found in passionate voice
that sets a room on fire,
or leaves it quaking
in sudden silence.
Life is what we see in the slanting shade
of every memory we’ve made –
all that we’ve seen, replayed
in perfect glinting moments,
tiny and shifting and
full of a strength won in blood. Layering
muscle onto frame,
never ask for less of a burden,
only wider shoulders.
We beat the steel of our hearts new,
pounding and pounding in flame,
re-forging with every loss.
When life cracks you one across the jaw,
it is only to remind you that men
don’t go down easy.
That anyone can be strong on a good day.
I save my strength for the days
when the only thing you can do
is to stand back up and stare life down,
to yell through clenched teeth
and blood sweat,
“You god-damned son of a bitch!”
Life is determined to keep breaking me down
to the fiery knot inside my gut that pulses
and reminds me why I choose to live life
honestly. To love,
and never be ashamed.
Life is a rainstorm through clenched teeth –
We drink down what we can keep.
Monday, December 28, 2009
95
So here's a poem that got posted earlier, but which has been completely re-worked. This is another of the poems which came out of this semester's poetry class. Fairly sums up how I feel about Connecticut most days.
So, 95:
I.
These days, I’m too familiar with the blazing track of
a summer sun on my face,
setting over this asphalt welcome-mat --
Interstate Ninety-Five, roaring north.
This state makes my blood roil.
The setting orange light
flares between the lost trees
and dark forests. The grey lanes
fly to the horizon, and all I can think
is how close I am to losing myself again.
Kept inside this rotted tree,
I am sick of scrabbling for cracked open acorns -
fallen crabapples.
Driving as fast as I can,
all of the pretty Connecticut girls are going north,
wrapped in sunglasses,
passing me by.
II.
Ninety Five, into the harsh spawning sun
glaring on westernmost Connecticut,
Ninety Five down the dagger bright strips of asphalt
crossing through the strange no-man’s land
of almost ordered forests -
The four miles where nature seems to hold her breath
and huge dawn arcs above -
Ninety Five quivering on the speedometer as I’m banging
sleep-numbed fingers against the steering wheel,
grimacing my way through a song,
Ninety Five down Ninety Five, ripping across a road that’s never meant
anything to anyone.
III.
These days, writing myself dry in the dark mornings,
I am finding my way clear of
the stench of déjà vu.
Breathing heavily to empty lungs,
All of the air I’m holding
spins out to stop and slow,
harden into concrete.
These days, lifting and carrying,
straining with all I have,
I’m building up again.
Finished with living in the rubble of a home.
Finished picking through debris and
calling it justified.
Kept between and around each slow beam of sunlight,
I am running south.
So, 95:
I.
These days, I’m too familiar with the blazing track of
a summer sun on my face,
setting over this asphalt welcome-mat --
Interstate Ninety-Five, roaring north.
This state makes my blood roil.
The setting orange light
flares between the lost trees
and dark forests. The grey lanes
fly to the horizon, and all I can think
is how close I am to losing myself again.
Kept inside this rotted tree,
I am sick of scrabbling for cracked open acorns -
fallen crabapples.
Driving as fast as I can,
all of the pretty Connecticut girls are going north,
wrapped in sunglasses,
passing me by.
II.
Ninety Five, into the harsh spawning sun
glaring on westernmost Connecticut,
Ninety Five down the dagger bright strips of asphalt
crossing through the strange no-man’s land
of almost ordered forests -
The four miles where nature seems to hold her breath
and huge dawn arcs above -
Ninety Five quivering on the speedometer as I’m banging
sleep-numbed fingers against the steering wheel,
grimacing my way through a song,
Ninety Five down Ninety Five, ripping across a road that’s never meant
anything to anyone.
III.
These days, writing myself dry in the dark mornings,
I am finding my way clear of
the stench of déjà vu.
Breathing heavily to empty lungs,
All of the air I’m holding
spins out to stop and slow,
harden into concrete.
These days, lifting and carrying,
straining with all I have,
I’m building up again.
Finished with living in the rubble of a home.
Finished picking through debris and
calling it justified.
Kept between and around each slow beam of sunlight,
I am running south.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Another Dream
So it's been a while since anything got posted here. I'm finished with the first semester of sophomore year, and I'm happy with how it went. I wasn't as productive with poetry as I'd hoped to be - the class I took let me down significantly in that regard. Over the next couple of days, I'm going to post what I developed, and hopefully get some new things churning.
So, here's a poem.
A Retelling
Walk in circles long enough,
and you’ll always find yourself in the center.
My feet trace the path of my thoughts,
winding the sidewalks of my city.
Under the bright lights spawning
the mad drunk energy of Saturday,
out through the deep calm and hidden tunnels
of patient Tuesday night Charleston streets.
I wait in my quiet way for
a breeze off the river,
some serene thing to lift me up.
The night holds its breath
until I find myself
leaning against a dark rail on the dark edge of Charleston,
watching a ponderous behemoth silhouette itself
from across the bay. White light shines
through the cracks in stacked shipping containers.
The wind is blocked. All I hear is my own
quiet breath, in time and tune with the waves. It leaves me tired,
exhausted – I find a song
on suddenly numb lips.
It is enough to carry me home.
So, here's a poem.
A Retelling
Walk in circles long enough,
and you’ll always find yourself in the center.
My feet trace the path of my thoughts,
winding the sidewalks of my city.
Under the bright lights spawning
the mad drunk energy of Saturday,
out through the deep calm and hidden tunnels
of patient Tuesday night Charleston streets.
I wait in my quiet way for
a breeze off the river,
some serene thing to lift me up.
The night holds its breath
until I find myself
leaning against a dark rail on the dark edge of Charleston,
watching a ponderous behemoth silhouette itself
from across the bay. White light shines
through the cracks in stacked shipping containers.
The wind is blocked. All I hear is my own
quiet breath, in time and tune with the waves. It leaves me tired,
exhausted – I find a song
on suddenly numb lips.
It is enough to carry me home.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
An October Dream
An October Dream
I.
My chest hurts this morning –
it is a Saturday and it is cold and
I’m alone. I walk down the thirteen
steps to the street, hands fisted inside my jacket.
The last farmer’s market huddles on
the edge of Marion Square.
Bright tents hang stark against the grey October sky.
I smile at the man who hands me my coffee.
My chest hurts this morning, a tiny ball of fire in
my sternum, grinding a way out. I clutch my coffee
through quiet, waiting King street, watching my hands.
Breath catches on every exhale – it is just cold enough to see.
Down Market street, the edges of people’s souls
trail out of theirs mouths.
II.
She puts her hair down,
the edges shining in the sunlight behind her.
Here in the middle of this war, she is beautiful.
The world is dying everywhere,
and all that matters is the way she breathes.
Gives herself to the wind blowing
her hair in through the last of this day,
falling over my face.
III.
It is Monday, and warm.
I sit on the edge of Charleston and two
gleaming jet fighters roar in over the river,
running their patrols with missiles and bombs and
pointed noses full of .50 caliber ammunition.
They’re so close I can see the men inside.
IV.
Her blue eyes fill mine. My chest hurts again.
She says,
“The room we’re in is burning down,
and we’re just standing
staring at each other.”
All I can feel is the kernel of furious flame in my chest,
Hollowing me.
V.
It’s Thursday, and cold again, and I’m alone,
pen in hand. The clock above my desk
is stopped at 1:35 and two seconds
and I have no idea when it
is.
I.
My chest hurts this morning –
it is a Saturday and it is cold and
I’m alone. I walk down the thirteen
steps to the street, hands fisted inside my jacket.
The last farmer’s market huddles on
the edge of Marion Square.
Bright tents hang stark against the grey October sky.
I smile at the man who hands me my coffee.
My chest hurts this morning, a tiny ball of fire in
my sternum, grinding a way out. I clutch my coffee
through quiet, waiting King street, watching my hands.
Breath catches on every exhale – it is just cold enough to see.
Down Market street, the edges of people’s souls
trail out of theirs mouths.
II.
She puts her hair down,
the edges shining in the sunlight behind her.
Here in the middle of this war, she is beautiful.
The world is dying everywhere,
and all that matters is the way she breathes.
Gives herself to the wind blowing
her hair in through the last of this day,
falling over my face.
III.
It is Monday, and warm.
I sit on the edge of Charleston and two
gleaming jet fighters roar in over the river,
running their patrols with missiles and bombs and
pointed noses full of .50 caliber ammunition.
They’re so close I can see the men inside.
IV.
Her blue eyes fill mine. My chest hurts again.
She says,
“The room we’re in is burning down,
and we’re just standing
staring at each other.”
All I can feel is the kernel of furious flame in my chest,
Hollowing me.
V.
It’s Thursday, and cold again, and I’m alone,
pen in hand. The clock above my desk
is stopped at 1:35 and two seconds
and I have no idea when it
is.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Down the Street
Down the Street
between the moon hanging in its gleaming track
and a pool of spotlight,
a girl in a black dress is dancing.
She weaves her arms and her hair whips -
blazing tracks to caress shoulders.
and it is all I can do not to fall in love with
the siren song of her skirt flashing against her legs.
Underneath the bright lights,
I lose my haze and drop confusion
in my wake. Down the street,
There is a girl in a black dress dancing a love song.
She steps out of the light for the space of
a heartbeat
smiles
Down the street there are green eyes smiling through
a breaking wave of thick hair.
She spins, her feet leaving the ground,
and she’s falling outside of the light –
Down the street, in a rush of salt air and igniting humidity,
I’m catching hold of a
hurricane in a black dress.
between the moon hanging in its gleaming track
and a pool of spotlight,
a girl in a black dress is dancing.
She weaves her arms and her hair whips -
blazing tracks to caress shoulders.
and it is all I can do not to fall in love with
the siren song of her skirt flashing against her legs.
Underneath the bright lights,
I lose my haze and drop confusion
in my wake. Down the street,
There is a girl in a black dress dancing a love song.
She steps out of the light for the space of
a heartbeat
smiles
Down the street there are green eyes smiling through
a breaking wave of thick hair.
She spins, her feet leaving the ground,
and she’s falling outside of the light –
Down the street, in a rush of salt air and igniting humidity,
I’m catching hold of a
hurricane in a black dress.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
City in a Birdcage
Finally pulled this one out. Been wrestling with it for a couple of weeks, easy - took some inspiration from one of my friends to make it really happen.
City in A Birdcage
Fading August evening light
slips its way over us,
dancing on the rails of the edge of Charleston,
sunset on a city in a birdcage.
Summer flies away over the edge of the canyon –
orange light slipping through trees coated sepia,
blazing onto my face with all
of the soft caress of redemption. Orange light
bringing strength to stand –
strength to hold in and weather the
screaming gales of September.
Summer ending on a smile
and a wave as the traveling circus
folds its tents, collapsing smiles
and a lullaby into the echoing
keys of a piano.
Dancing on that rail,
in the slanting sunlight through the
metal lining of this
birdcage,
I am grinning for all of the reasons not to.
In one moment, the last summer sunset ends,
leaving us spinning on the slate tiles of that sea wall.
We’re all lions these days,
roaring ourselves out to the river at midnight,
underneath the strange low moon and
between all of the man-made havens of streetlights,
shouting our freedom in the
silence of Wednesday night Charleston.
And later, walking home,
north up Meeting Street,
all of the frogs in the bushes are howling.
City in A Birdcage
Fading August evening light
slips its way over us,
dancing on the rails of the edge of Charleston,
sunset on a city in a birdcage.
Summer flies away over the edge of the canyon –
orange light slipping through trees coated sepia,
blazing onto my face with all
of the soft caress of redemption. Orange light
bringing strength to stand –
strength to hold in and weather the
screaming gales of September.
Summer ending on a smile
and a wave as the traveling circus
folds its tents, collapsing smiles
and a lullaby into the echoing
keys of a piano.
Dancing on that rail,
in the slanting sunlight through the
metal lining of this
birdcage,
I am grinning for all of the reasons not to.
In one moment, the last summer sunset ends,
leaving us spinning on the slate tiles of that sea wall.
We’re all lions these days,
roaring ourselves out to the river at midnight,
underneath the strange low moon and
between all of the man-made havens of streetlights,
shouting our freedom in the
silence of Wednesday night Charleston.
And later, walking home,
north up Meeting Street,
all of the frogs in the bushes are howling.
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