You are a writer,
so you know
that it is a terrible thing–
this act of writing.
You make yourself vulnerable with every word.
Even more so with poetry.
You must distill the truth about yourself
into something quickly consumed
and easily judged.
Few things scare me,
but this baring of the soul
is exquisite anguish.
The naming of things
is the chief aim of writing
To articulate the ineffable
feelings and thoughts of the secret soul
To gaze into the inscrutable workings
of the mind and heart
and to describe whatever is detected there
This is the essence of expression
The “why” behind the struggle
to put pen to paper
even when the words don’t flow easily
To put a name to something nameless
so I know what to call myself
Hell, you once had the power
To make your home in each of us
To smolder in the pits of our souls
And make us wretched
Hell, you once grew like a flower
Roots tangled through our thoughts
Poisonous blossoms making our air
Thick with sulfuric fumes
Hell, you once stood like a tower
Proud and vicious against our skies
Looming over us, a constant threat
Keeping us in terror and tyranny
Hell, your power is broken
Your flower withered
Your tower shattered
You’ve been plundered, ransacked,
Emptied by the one
Who went willingly through your gates
And obliterated them as he came back out
[1 Corinthians 15; Revelation 1:18]
When I get angry,
My whole body goes rigid.
My shoulders stiffen.
My jaw clenches.
If standing, I grow very still
For just a moment,
Then I may break loose and pace,
Or simply walk away,
Or stomp away, depending.
And I can feel this stiffness
Settled in my soul,
This unbending, proud, angry heart.
I have been holding my shoulders tense for so long,
Holding my grudges and my offenses,
That I’ve forgotten how to yield.
But oh, how I long to yield again:
To bend and not break,
To sway and not stiffen,
To forgive, to forget,
To lay down sword and shield
And simply yield.
How does a heart break?
Is it a glass falling to the ground?
A scatter of shards and
the irredeemable sound
of fractures, too many to repair?
Is it sudden, complete?
Is one left standing
in the circle of glittering pieces
staring at the refracted light,
trembling hands empty, and empty inside?
How does a heart break?
Is it the slow shifting of a fault-line,
a grinding pressure, a bit at a time?
Does it compress and harden
under all the weight?
Collapse in on itself, until a great
seismic shudder of energy
surges and presses out
and throws everything around
into chaos?
How does a heart break?
Is it a stone in a river,
silent and still?
Letting the persistent waters of grief
wash over it, years upon years,
until the river’s tears
have worn away any definition
and it is smooth and unresisting?
Little by little, day by day,
does it give itself away
so there’s nothing left to take anymore?
So it can’t be robbed
by the constant throb
of pain or loss or longing?
How does a heart break?
Is it a glass, a quake, a stone?
Does your heart feel these things?
I know only my own.
The days stretch on–
a blurred line,
a slow succession
leading into mist
which never parts.
Is everyone’s future
so unfathomable?
Or do some see it
stretch before them
like a bright river,
carrying them, all anticipation,
swiftly onward
to their destination?
These days and days and days
take out all
the fight in me.
I shouldn’t be so tired.
But where there was fire,
there are now only embers
smoldering, cooling, waiting
for some sweet breath
of wind to blow
and coax
them to a warmer glow.
I dare not hope for a blaze.
And yet, in this haze,
this march of days,
I find a quiet, bending strength.
And maybe the fight in me
hasn’t died; it has learned
a steady stance.
Perhaps the fight
isn’t always flame and spark.
Perhaps it’s standing, enduring,
even through the dark.
Even now I find
that day after day,
the fight isn’t a battle.
It’s the will to stay.
I’ve been trying to write for days,
And I keep erasing every line.
My words feel so trite,
so flimsy,
so weak.
Why do they abandon me
when my need is greatest?
When my heart swells and trembles,
When my spirit cries and shouts,
Then my pen runs dry
and my tongue falls mute.
I know that words can transport, transform.
I’ve felt their latent power humming on the page.
Why then when I feel deeply
are these letters flat and dull?
I’m desperate to say
whatever this is
that quakes and roars and whispers
through my dreams and into my waking hours.
We talk with our eyes,
and maybe that’s best.
Maybe they say what I can’t.
Look in them and see
that if you break, so do I;
if you fall, I fall too;
and if I rise,
I’ll rise with you.
I’ve always wanted to be brave
To face my demons unafraid
And yet I’ve always waited on
Someone, something, far beyond
But there are wolves outside my door
And I’m a child no more
Throw open wide this shuttered heart
Let in the light till shadows part
Gaze straight into the the truth of me
Embrace the facts unflinchingly
Unlock the gate, unbar the door
For I’m a child no more
I swell beyond these strict confines
Overflow my precious lines
Past the margins, I am free
Expand to the periphery
Plummet down or rise to soar
Either way, a child no more
Inside each heart
there are certain paths
that should never be taken.
Paths which seem to lead
to self-sufficiency.
Paths which promise
that you can become
impervious to pain
if only you stop caring,
if only you pull away
from anything and anyone
who gets too close.
So you leave them
before they can leave you,
and you tell yourself
you’re just playing it smart.
But walk too far down that path
and you’ll forget how
to turn around.
In these lean hours of respite
these quiet moments between
When I allow myself to wait
wait
wait
and listen to the rhythmic rush of blood
in my eardrums
counterposed to the ticking of the clock
on my wall
(my own heartbeat
striving relentlessly
against the current of time)
In these moments
I slow down my racing thoughts
my frantic fears
my desperate wishes
And it is enough
enough
to rest in this transient calm
to know that all is well
and will be well
Tomorrow will come
with its dizzying demands
and I will face it
and surely fail
to meet all its myriad requirements
But the steadying truth
is right here in this silent stillness:
It is well.
Woman With a Pen 