A Poem! Or a smidgen of one!
I wrote this when I had a fever.
What am I saying? When do I not write under influence of fevers?
Truss
I am a hare suspended in the shivering net that spreads
silently humming between the stars—
swift in my own right, but substantial.
I am bucking against threads, strangled by silks,
yearning to be gossamer, but so
afraid of death.
Maybe it's bad. Most poems that mention the D word usually are, right? Isn't that the rule? I've gotten so mixed up with self-critiquing that I can't tell which of my writings is bad and which is good and which is mediocre, which is happy, which is sad, which is solid and which is vapor. I don't even know what they mean anymore. Maybe I should defer that judgment to you, dear readers. Try and tell me what it means because I haven't got a clue but it sings to me and that's why I like it. I like things that sing to me without sense. Like memories and Pablo Neruda and the ocean and the ground underneath my feet.
None of it makes sense but it's all so musical.
Turn On Me -- The Shins
I like it :) It reminds me eerily of Watership Down. That, and the way we fight against fragile mortality and that inevitable passage through the veil, yearning for freedom and weightlessness but archetypally afraid of...well, you said it.
ReplyDeleteAre you feeling better? Didn't see you Sunday.