Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Happiness, Intelligence and Love

I, who long ago denounced the notion
of a soul mate, can no longer deny
                     the obvious
and after numerous attempts to swear off
I find myself right back here, writing
                                                 what I know.
What I know is you.
All morning, I have drafted notes and
and lines and form
around unfamiliar subjects to escape
                                                all lingering
and technique and research increases in multiplicity
and then I’m stuck in mire of too much
and not enough.
Simply put, I miss you. 
And the longing both to have you and to say this
becomes stronger than my will
                  to hide.
And suddenly I find it necessary to enounce admission
that you’re my inspiration
and… shit, did I just say that?
Here’s the thing: 
I never was oblivious to the slow erosion
of my resistance, though, perhaps I never dreamt I’d let go of quite so much.
Now, shackled
to this new reality,
I’m content to be a prisoner of…
See, love creates a monster of the lingua, vomiting
             that can only be defined as nuts.
So, like I said, all day, I’ve tried to wrap my brain around
the greats, twist words to do with Hemingway
and happiness
(or Hemingway and lack thereof)
with Dostoevsky’s thoughts
on intelligence and pain.
And here’s the thing-
intelligence aside, my happiness derives
from you and even with the children just arriving
and even though soon I have to leave,
my senses crave not just you but silence.
So, my escape is to a parking lot- my solace,
the cramped confines
of a car-
just to attest
to the awareness of our connection.  Really,
                                                   this only appears new. 
And the truth is that whatever part of me
said yes, held this understanding
and somehow, even you, I fear, can’t fully grasp
how strong the pull. 
So, here- just these few images expressed belatedly
                                                   to sum things up:
I am writing outside – away.  The sun can’t decide her purpose this day and it is warmish
then it is not and just as I think
to remember to request of you next time you come to check on me a sweater,
I look up and you are walking toward me, sweater in hand.  That’s one. 
Two is every other
single time you complete my thought or grant
unstated desire and three: today, I pick up phone to say
                    I miss you
and your words are waiting, mirroring my own.
So whatever woods
of my own making
I might find myself lost within,
grappling I frustratingly engage in regarding fear of love,
undying and pain’s inevitability,

I now release in order to embrace
what’s happening right in front of me.  I have endured Earth’s
great sadness and earned my depth of heart
and if sorrow is the cost of brilliance, I’ll just find bliss
in ignorance.

1 comment:

  1. Wowee! So much to inhale. I love that at some point I realised I was reading the poem as if it were a letter, as if I knew the speaker, as if... of course, I most love that you worked Hemingway and Dostoevsky in.