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.
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.
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.
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.