Last night, I wrote the best opening line for a poem. It came to me in a dream, and I woke up savoring the words, feeling the electric rightness of every syllable. It was the beginning of the poem that would succor the hungry, clothe the naked, heal the sick and just generally make the world a better place. I don’t think Jesus could’ve written it better. Like Bode Miller, I was about to Live Up to My Potential! I was inches away from publication, from having my Emily Dickinson moment in the sun.
And I rolled over and went back to sleep.
Poems are hard to write. Every word has to perform. And it has to sound good performing. Straight pipes, not fart mufflers. And I write them so badly that I haven’t tried any ‘serious’ poems since this abortion:
Incantation for Lost Souls
At night I sleep cocooned and healing.
Each morning I tear the wound open, conjuring memories.
Tasting the exquisite sweetness of it
Piercing dream flesh with invented emotion
Until fresh blood seeps beneath the bandage.
A self-inflicted injury—I created this, made this
For you.
Darkness brings the cure. A potent oblivion caresses the scab.
In the black warmth of nothingness, something grows that wants this hurt.
Which, I think, was about my craving for drama. There are some nice phrases in it, I think. ‘Potent oblivion’ is good. Too much sibilance overall. Too Poetry I. Actually, I think I did better in Poetry I. So, that’s sad. I’ve lived 23 more years, graduated, got married, had 4 kids and got a real job and I still have nothing to say!
And it was given to me in a dream.
And I went back to sleep.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
And I rolled over and went back to sleep.
Poems are hard to write. Every word has to perform. And it has to sound good performing. Straight pipes, not fart mufflers. And I write them so badly that I haven’t tried any ‘serious’ poems since this abortion:
Incantation for Lost Souls
At night I sleep cocooned and healing.
Each morning I tear the wound open, conjuring memories.
Tasting the exquisite sweetness of it
Piercing dream flesh with invented emotion
Until fresh blood seeps beneath the bandage.
A self-inflicted injury—I created this, made this
For you.
Darkness brings the cure. A potent oblivion caresses the scab.
In the black warmth of nothingness, something grows that wants this hurt.
Which, I think, was about my craving for drama. There are some nice phrases in it, I think. ‘Potent oblivion’ is good. Too much sibilance overall. Too Poetry I. Actually, I think I did better in Poetry I. So, that’s sad. I’ve lived 23 more years, graduated, got married, had 4 kids and got a real job and I still have nothing to say!
And it was given to me in a dream.
And I went back to sleep.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
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