make your words like waves
gather them together
and wait
and hold
back
until they start to free-flow
into the next
unsuspecting
person
a line a line a line at a time
pull them under
take them back
with you
until you
spit them back out
at a later date
poems
looking back on other poems
are apparently what my poems
had in store for me today
missing words
missing links
nighttime writing
pondering
posting
[but some things are still
missing]
i have so much to say
(otherwise, how would i write a poem
a day
for a whole damn year?)
but so much of my time is spent
figuring out
in words
what exactly i’d like to say
and then
overthinking
how someone might
misconstrue my sentences
so i nitpick
and pick out
word
by word
by punctuation
by phrasing
adding extra notes
to prevent
misunderstanding
even though i understand
not everyone understands
where i’m coming from
and not everyone wants to
truly
listen
and not everyone
will read my words
so carefully
delicately
chosen
and not everyone
has the same associations
with words
and things
as i do
but i still
hover
over my buffet of words
hoping to make art
out of language
hoping to create meaning
where once there was nothing
but i spend so much time
figuring out how to say things
that sometimes i forget
what i was trying to say
in the first place.
did the work
did the thing
should i feel accomplished?
here’s the rub:
i know it could have gone better
(i know it could have gone worse)
but
it has become part of me
part of my mornings
(alongside my coffee)
and yeah, i guess i’ve learned a little
about myself
my words
my process(es)
my struggle-busses
(though i still feel so far away from having any of those
actually/totally ‘figured out’)
but does it have to mean anything?
does there have to be a large lesson learned
do our lives ever truly have
a beginning/middle/end
(except
birth/
the entirety of our lives/
death)
?
so,
i tell myself
from myself
to myself,
stop trying to make a neat story
where life just is
(that’s the fun thing about life:
it doesn’t get tied in a nice bow
at the end of every chapter;
it seeps
and bleeds
into every part of you;
your childhood
didn’t just cut off when you turned teen,
your teen-self didn’t stop teen-ing
when you entered college,
and with every passing year
you grow
but you can’t just let go
of who you once were,
you carry those stories
those strengths and faults
those likes and dislikes
those selves
with you
always,
they are part of what helped you get here;
you can’t have leaves without the branches,
and you can’t have branches without the trunk,
and you certainly can’t have a trunk without the roots
(and, if we’re comparing ourselves to trees now,
we might as well commit
and talk about how,
underneath,
supporting the roots themselves,
are mycelial networks
helping with nutrients
and
connecting trees to each other
and
living symbiotically,
so community
is the lesson learned there:
not even trees
stand solely alone)
)
so
i suppose
what i/this poem
are saying
is
this experiment might continue on for another year
or another five
or stop abruptly
just before another year mark
or i might not poem tomorrow
the point
is that i did it
i proved to myself
that i could do it
(though, with my stubbornness, i didn’t have too much doubt)
and i’ve written
(at least) one poem
every
single
day
for a year
and posted them
for the internet to see
and that’s all that matters
(right now, at least)
i really don’t know what i’m doing.
my only post-secondary education
in poetry
was over a decade ago
and i can’t really remember
anything i learned
(granted, that’s probably from
all the trauma/trauma responses
i was experiencing
at the time),
but i digress…
i feel like my skills
with words
would improve
if i could just
Remember
those words.
i often know exactly what i want to say,
and that there is a word
that’s perfect,
but i can’t for the life of me
remember it.
or i know what to say
and i also suspect
there’s an even better word
that would fit the scheme/
rhyme/alliteration/pattern
better than what i have down already
and the harder i try to think
the better i understand
all those analogies
of holding sand
in tightly grasped hands
the desperation
erases
all sense of
every word
i’ve ever known.
so that’s why my poetry
is a little
imperfectionistic,
a little
‘flying by the seat of my pants’,
a little
self-aware/meta/laughing at my own poems,
because otherwise
the grasp would be even tighter
and the only remaining
grain
of sand
would be that of my name
(and even that
i don’t always remember
right away)
connect
with
your words
yourself
your past
your present
(maybe even your future)
all you have to do is
connect
with
your words.
~~~
every evening i go to bed
expecting to wake up
and be hit
struck
stampeded
by inspiration,
and every morning i wake up
and i’m still
simply
tired.
~~~
(is it time yet?
time to contemplate what makes folks ‘like’ the poetry i post?
is it time to admit that, maybe i’m not writing for an audience,
but i’ve probably started posting for one.)
no thank you, words,
i would not like to listen to you
as i try to get in touch with the
words in my own brain
as the caffeine filters in
ever so slowly
and i [hopefully] find a way to wake up
and put some more words here
and a few more words there
and welcome a few more words in
and get a few more words out…
so
no thank you, words,
words in music,
you are not welcome quite yet
this morning,
please wait your turn.
sometimes you have to go back
and re-re-read your older poetry
(yes, the poetry you so recently re-read
in order to post it to the blog)
because you had such a concept[control]
of the language
the alliterations acting as appetizers
on an empty stomach/tongue,
and as you read
(and think “why the fuck can’t i find that
language
this time ‘round?”)
maybe tell yourself
maybe remind yourself
you probably thought that same thing back in early May
late April
and perhaps,
in a month or two or three
(or even a year or two or three)
you’ll look back on this
early
mid
June
and think to yourself
“my goodness,
i was so good at poetry
back then.”
kipventures 