i did it
i performed my own poetry
i read it out loud
for people
and the people
felt
emotions
is this another aspect
of poetry as the opposing side
to prose’s analytic/logic basis?
is poetry’s purpose both
to come from a place of true emotionality
but also
to affect the reader/listener
empathetically?
and how do i come at this craft
from such a brainy/overthinking origin
just to affect those i’m reading to
so profoundly in the feels?
i’d like to turn the difficult times
into beautiful poetry,
paint prose with words,
tie them up in rhythm, rhyme, and scansion.
i’d like to take the lovely times
and create gorgeous works
from them too,
burst forth with novel metaphors,
capture the moments,
the meadows,
with similes and allegories and alliteration
but instead
i feel
stuck
i feel
restless
i feel like i’m best
at
turning the mundanity
into humorous
but still mundane
poetry
and i suppose i should be okay with that
but i just kind of want
more
i’d like
for my poetry
(and my acting, similarly,)
to open up the secret parts of me,
those parts that no one [sometimes not even me] sees
and bring honesty and truth and a dash of the full, elaborate
condition
of humanity
out into the forefront of all our minds
but i find
that i hide behind
humor
and perfectionism
and overthinking
and intellectualism
(but aren’t those a part of me, too?)
how can i find the true me
if it takes a bomb to push through?
that day
in class
when i accessed
what i’ve been trying to for so long,
it wasn’t a push or a force or a bomb
it was a steady ease into the presentness of my body
my mind felt connected,
continually,
for the first time in (give or take) an eternity
so maybe that should be my aim
the gentle
allowance
of self
into my poetry
but how to do that?
[breathe?]
i can’t seem to make my fingers type,
my brain to process,
my mind to wake up,
my body to…do anything but crave coffee.
i passed the 100th day of writing daily poetry
and of course i forgot all about it
in favor of writing a poem that was relatively mundane,
but also full of hope and potential and change
and, ultimately, relatability.
i assumed i’d write about the 100 days
(and subsequent forgotten anniversary)
the following day,
the one hundred and first day,
look back on the full hundred days,
look forward towards two hundred and sixty four more
but Louka needed us
badly
yesterday
so we were with her,
and my only poem was an invocation
a hope
that everything would be okay.
while it’s not perfectly okay now,
it’s not terrible.
still scary
for all of us,
but it’s not a stroke,
it doesn’t seem neurological,
and we’ll continue sleeping on the couch next to her
and carrying her up and down our fourth floor Brooklyn walk-up
for as long as we all need.
because
our dog
is the goodest dog,
she is,
and we would do anything and everything for her,
including buying a house.
the morning
early morning
just woken up morning
was spent crafting
a thought
a poem
a contemplation
about acting
about anxiety
about newfound epiphanies in my head
but the regular
morning pages
morning poems
morning contemplation
meditation
time
was spent arranging
and planning
and father-talking
which is all okay
but suffice it to say
i’m a little off my poetry game
now.
the first
of any month
scares the crap out of me
i’m so much more able to ignore
the steady, streaming, passage of time
if the dates just keep flowing.
but the reset,
the sudden jump back to single digits,
the shock to my system as i readjust…
write new dates,
set new goals,
pay new bills,
(does it never end?)
~~~
you’d think
for someone who has new years in their top favorite holidays
new beginnings wouldn’t hurt so damn badly
~~~
poetry about something real
(kind of like prose)
flows out of me smoothly,
effortlessly,
the words coming even without me pondering them
the appearance on the document
pristine
and as i go
i think more and more
and harder and harder
and second guess
and try to have a nice ending
(are poems made for tidy endings?)
and i fizzle,
or overanalyze,
and what started as a journey
ends in near virtual reality
can my poems ever truly reflect
what’s happening
in my brain?
change
is a-comin’
and it’s ok to be scared
and it’s ok if it’s not right away
and it’s ok if it’s not exactly what/how we think
but change is coming
and coming
and coming
and maybe
i’ll change
too.
~~~
writing poetry
quick lines,
every now and then
an almost rhyme,
and i wonder if the greats
ever wrate
[wrote]
this way;
half asleep
as a way to wake-up
coffee in hand
cat in lap
pondering the possibilities
of whole pieces
(but only thinking
one or two words
at a time)
~~~
quick!
major inspiration
flow through me now!
poetry
prose
fiction
creative-non
monologues
whole scripts
anything
something
please, universe, please?
due dates
coming up
deadlines
when are they?
i feel in my gut
june 1st
(but also
maybe
may 30?)
the problem with thinking
“maybe apply to this,
maybe not…”
is that i don’t have a solid
“do this by this time”
i just have a vague
reminiscence
idea
memory
of a date and a thing
and nothing solid
(and nothing gets applied,
because i can never remember
any
specifics)
~~~
there are still poems swirling around in my head
that i feel i should make something out of
this storm in my psyche
but even when i write it out
the tempest is still there
and does that mean i’m never actually done pondering that subject matter
or does it mean that i can’t get everything into a poem that i could in prose
or does it mean that i’ll never ever capture my thoughts fully into words?
~~~
clean up
post
transform to lower case
post
read over quickly
post
decision
post
decision
post
decision
post
(is the posting taking the fun out of poetry?)
(or at least the honesty?)
kipventures 