The alchemy of poetry:
pain into gold,
lead into beauty.
silence is violence.
if it’s acid behind a shut mouth,
it will be sweetness, if spoken aloud.
Tag: poet
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Hello reader,
Thank you for your email.
To answer your question, yes— I still feel “the call of the void,” as you put it.
I also wanted to touch on one of the points you made: that a person cannot simultaneously be “put-together” while truly carrying “the void” within them. I cannot say I entirely agree.
Without going too deep into detail, let’s first be clear that “the void” represents the dark of the human soul— all of its capabilities for turmoil, psychopathology, chaos, and self-destruction. The autoimmunity of the psyche, if you will.
While this may at first seem at odds with how I carry myself through the world, make no mistake: a man can carry an ocean of disorderliness within him while holding the insight to channel it constructively. We are the progeny of the universe, child is like parent. We all carry the universal seed of entropy within us, just as we carry starlight.
The question is, can order be made of this disorder? Can this very pit be channeled effectively, somehow? Despite the vacuum we carry, is there still a Sun suspended there?
I may have had a bit too much coffee this morning, but I hope you get my jist. Yes, I feel the call of the void still. I peer over into that endless pitch often. I am not afraid of it, nor is not at odds with my functioning in academia/in life— I think, rather, it fuels it.
Let me know if you have further questions. Well wishes!
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But please, I beg of you: do not squander the gift. Do not squander the gift, and do not regard the gift as anything but a gift.
Do not wait to start living, do not let yourself know a life that isn’t living. You will have your time to die, you can be sure of it— do not spend this life dying. Life is for living, and death is for dying— do not let the two bleed into one another.
And when it is your time, travel lightly to your deathbed, without the weight of regret. And if you must carry regret, let it be of things done, things said— not things not done, things unsaid.
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I saw the young boy crying out for attention
trapped within the belly of a beast.
The young boy only wanted to tap my shoulder—
how did the beast make this known?
The swiping of a paw, the slicing of a claw. Knocked me over, bloodied.
I ran — the young boy cried out louder.
Father, how can I love you?
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imagination’s mists are gentle,
so easily scattered by heavy breath.
find your place of stillness—
intelligent molecules of water:
coalesce.
what of the burden?
that soft place within:
it guards my regret.
to let go of the past:
I grip its sands
in fiendish hands.
I guard my coal
as if it’s gold.
can I make myself known?
you hurt me.
can you hear me?
does this truth have a bite?
do you prefer to be blind?
darkness, a blanket:
do not hiss at the light.
but it’s the same story:
my father’s yours,
your father’s mine.
I’m tired of it.
I sat on the dead horse, cracked the reins.
Had the audacity to be stunned
when it didn’t move.
I am tired of it.
I now have my place of refuge
where I can breathe gentle,
imagination’s mists
suspended easy.
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No one’s ever freed anything
by hating it.
No one’s ever healed anything
by beating it.
You kicked what was down,
demanding it get up—
you tucked the flower in a closet, then asked it:
“why haven’t you grown?”
You were struck so much,
you flinched at loving hands.
If you’re empty long enough,
drinking in the Sun
will turn your stomach.
Maybe part of healing
is learning to tolerate the medicine.
Maybe poison
is an acquired taste
that needs to be forgotten.
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when did poetry,
my sole place of freedom,
become
yet another cage?
“put a bow
on your hell—
tell us
how it’s actually heaven.”
“swear
up and down
that your ugly bits
are pretty—
that there’s somebody out there
who sees it
worth redeeming,
that you, in fact,
do not tire of waiting.”
“make a song
of your screams,
and paint
of your blood,
and sweet, sweet mercy
of your bottomless grudge.”
“tell us,
while the tyrant rules,
that good
has the final say,
that,
in spite of the night,
we’re each promised
beautiful day.”
“create and take
an opiate of your choosing.
wrap these lies
in ribbons of truth.
and, while you’re at it,
go—
paint your decay
in a mask of youth.”
“yes, deceiver—
write us poetry.
swear to us, deceiver,
that it will all
be okay.”
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why draw a poem
out of thin air?
poet, fill your cup
then pour it on paper.
poet,
what is your job?
poet,
it isn’t the poem.
poet,
you are a teacher.
poet, teach us
how to live,
poet, teach us
how to grieve.
poet, teach us
how to give,
and poet, teach us
to receive.
poet, teach me
when to stay.
poet, teach me
when to leave.
poet, please
teach me to love,
oh, poet,
so much I can’t breathe.
poet,
focus not
on the rhyme
nor on the meter.
show us
how to spend
our time,
oh, poet—
please,
be our teacher.
if you are failing
oh, poet,
to make something of this life:
tell us.
tell us the truth,
oh poet,
that we may be free.
poet, your truth
will set you
and set me
free.
and poet,
if you struggle
to tell the truth,
if you’d sooner hide
than spin your life
into rhyme,
then tell us of this fear.
tell us of your walls,
that you may shine your light
on our own.
i, the poet:
i have nothing to teach you.
i, the poet
have a critical truth
to tell:
i don’t know what i’m doing.
but in this, i am confident.
i hope you understand.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 