Sometimes You Just Need to Ask

You mean that’s it?

I just needed to ask some poetry to come and crawl into my head?

I knew that; I really did, but I had forgotten. I have had the experience of asking for a poem to get past the fragment stage and having it happen within a day or two. It seems counterintuitive that creativity, that most capricious of things, should be at my beck and call.

But it’s true. To a degree, it is responsive to my requests when they are made humbly and honestly.

Prayer, in its most primal form, is a formal statement of desire and intention. It takes an inchoate longing and frames it into a concrete wish (or states for the record that one needs help figuring out what the wish is.)

Any time I ask for something in a way that draws aside the curtain of pride and shows my truest need, I am praying.  By praying, I make room for something numinous to answer.

Lover, Come Back To Me

Dear Poetry,

Come back to me. I miss you so much.
I never meant to make you think you don’t matter.
I never meant to imply, not even for a second,
That I don’t need you to survive this life.

Come back to me. You know you want to.
You want to see your beauty reflected in my face.
You want to hear your words anew in the way they touch me.
You want to know the old words as eternal and make me birth fresh ones.

You want to humble me; to tear out the truth.
You want to see me spread it out before you in its imperfect flesh.
You want to taste it; share it, paint it on my face.
You want me wearing you for all to see.

I want it too. Come back to me. Return
To our strange home upon the hill,
The one I leave so dusty when I’m sick.
Oh love, come, and if I am lost and not there
Call to me until I must obey.

New Poem: “Privilege”

I do not usually post poems on this site, but as a white person living in the times of the Black Lives Matter movement I’m having feelings that just want to get out. I wrote this about what it’s like to be suffering and still be achingly conscious of white privilege.

Privilege

I got troubles, I got poison in my head
wanting to kill me and that’s fucked up it’s true
But if I open these pale ears of mine
I got other voices that talk at me too

and the voices they say, listen white girl
listen to us black and dying out here
dying while we’re trying to live
dying when we’re trying harder than you

Hear us howl, not afraid of a traffic stop girl
no stinkeye when you go in a shop girl
get some attention in the ER girl
not labeled druggie even if you are girl

Listen white girl, if it’s all you can do
just twist that razor blade in your hand
the one with a silver edge at a right angle
to the fishbelly skin inside your arm

Tilt it enough to catch the light
once and again just like the light
revolving on a black and white
shining on blood in this time of war.

Loneliness

Does a poet have to be lonely?

I look at today’s picture and think about how much I’d like to have friends with whom I could share my poetry.

I tell myself it’s lack of money that keeps me from entering the world of workshops and writer’s circles, and there’s some truth to that–but there do exist alternatives, and I haven’t explored them very extensively.

I feel as if my poems are the equivalent of sex toys–kept in a box, never talked about and shared only with very intimate companions.

Masturbation, to continue the metaphor, is safer for the psyche than sex with others. You get no feedback, don’t need to deal with self-consciousness and don’t have to consider others’ needs.

But it can get lonely, and it’s missing a special energy that intimacy with another can create.

I’ve been working on getting my first submissions done, and I am eager to take the next step. I’m eager to take steps in getting more involved with my local scene, or find a course I can afford next year.

But I’m also afraid, and a part of me would rather stay lonely than risk ending up with companions who might be toxic.

The Empty Chair

How many metaphors do we creative types have for those times of feeling blocked, repressed, empty or otherwise unable or unwilling to create?

I chose no picture for several days, and the one I drew from the box today seems quite fitting: a humble wooden chair in a small room, red desk, messy papers and bookshelves. Even what I think might be a crumpled white paper on the floor.

Ill in body and mind, I have not been present in that chair. Grey of thought, I have not looked through that window. Sick with shame and inertia, I have not even climbed the steps to that room.

Today chance brought out this photo (as, it must be admitted, my sole creative effort for the day since I am still not doing too well) and I am taking a moment to look at it.

No poem appears, nor am I feeling a jolt of energy that I will use for another essay or poem.

I am not transported into the room. I am not yet able to reach it–but the room is still there.

The chair is empty, but it is waiting for me.

The Poet of Wickedness

“I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also.”

—–Walt Whitman

Today’s picture prompt made me think of the Shadow.

The jagged, irregular boundary of it in the picture reminds me of how I live inside my head.

Now, I know what Jung says about the Shadow, and how important and valid it is. But right now, I’m just thinking in child’s fairytale terms of light/dark, life/death. Indulge me.

Part of me would like to believe that I am 99% a child of Light (whatever I define that to be) but that is not even close to true.

Suicide prevention is a cause dear to my heart, and the creative pursuit of one more day is part of what my other site is about. I believe I write as a force on the side of life–but when it comes to poetry, it may not seem so clear in my words.

The poet I am is not a nice person.

Even when I write about nice subjects, dark stuff can creep in. When I write about something that’s already not so nice–look out. I’m usually not happy until the result gives me a creepy feeling on the back of my neck and a vague disturbance in the region of my belly button.

So, when I let the darkness run rampant on my page, am I still fighting on the side I believe in? The side I need to pour energy into if I want to stick around here?

Yes.

If “Beauty is truth, truth beauty”—then yes.

What is the Ocean Thinking?

Here is today’s picture prompt. Do you know the most important lesson we learn from prompts? That anything can be an inspiration for a poem. Anything. A poet in touch with his or her creativity need never fear boredom.

Even with an abstract image, I can access a multitude of angles for poem seeds. For an image like the above, there are so many ways to go.

There are the most straightforward ones: A journey. Loneliness. Nature. A character: what is the walker thinking? Where is he or she going? Why?

Oh, but there is so much more. Gestalt theories of dreamwork postulate that everything we see in a dream is a part of our own consciousness. When I look at a picture, I sort of reverse this idea and imagine that anything in it can have a consciousness and a story.

What is the ocean thinking? Or the sand? Or the walking stick? Or the walker’s shoes?

Who or what is seeing this scene from above? What’s the story there?

Is this whole scene happening in someone else’s thoughts? Do they miss the walker or try to imagine what he or she is doing?

Do we want to delve shamelessly into archetypes? We’ve got symbolism from water, mud, traveler/seeker, the rod…have fun.

It may all sound cheesy. One hundred flights of thought may lead to one promising seed–or less.

But contemplating a picture–or any image we see, as long as we do it with conscious intention–invites our creativity in for tea; helps it feel welcome.

And when it feels welcome, it’s more likely to drop by with gifts.