absolute freedom,
it used to be the goal—
until I learned,
having nothing to be tethered to
is its own kind of hell,
its own kind of jail.
Tag: spiritual
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Break your life into verse.
To run on this path,
or to stop; savor,
inhale—
step,
stop—
gravel crunch, silence,
eyes closed, heart open,
holding the Sun’s hands.
step again, stop.
there is a hidden movement.
a leap in every pause.
such speed in stillness.
such stagnancy in those who cannot stop moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving—
lips move,
but frozen on the same word.
find the symphony.
make a hymn of the cacophony.
rescue each layer from its doom:
to be swallowed by the whole.
do not let life be noise:
let it be music,
and please:
stop, and listen.
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can you feel the flame dying?
the celestial hearth we orbit dims.
premonitions of heat death:
you inch farther
and farther
away.
our gravity: not enough.
this dance, it comes to an end—
you are drawn in by another,
by a pull
far greater.
goodbye old friend, goodbye.
i pray this star
is warm enough for me alone—
but my oceans
already turn to ice.
my glacial heart
slows its beating.
heat death, heat death, heat death:
again, the premonition.
prescient vision:
it sees not the future, but the now
too clearly.
my love is its own cipher:
the very thing which bitters our parting,
makes shouts of whispers,
cymbals of subtlety.
and what is heartbreak but this:
for the heart
to still hold someone near
who is not near
to be held?
the heart understands not
the language of miles—
to it, you are still close.
it reaches out, sure of your embrace—
it recoils at the thin air.
my love:
where are you?
-
can you feel the flame dying? this star of ours, the celestial hearth we orbit, she dims.
premonitions of heat death — you inch farther and farther away. our gravity is not enough. this dance comes to an end— you are drawn in by another, a gravity far greater than mine.
goodbye old friend, goodbye.
i pray this star is warm enough for me alone, but my oceans already turn to ice. my glacial heart slows its beating— heat death, heat death, heat death— again, the premonition.
prescient vision, it sees not the future, but the now too clearly. my love is its own cipher: the very thing which bitters our parting makes shouts of whispers, cymbals of subtlety. they broke my heart long before you spoke the words.
and what is heartbreak but this: to hold someone near to your heart still who has long departed? the heart speaks not in terms of physical distance— to it, you are still close. it reaches out, expecting your embrace— it recoils at the thin air. it reaches again, cannot fathom your absence.
where are you, my love?
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There is no such thing as poetry!
Just speak! No — bellow!
Do not contort yourself. Those screams in your gut were meant to echo through mountain ranges. Do not place them in a closet shoebox.
Do not “try” to make it sound pretty, do not “try” to make it poetry— else, what was meant to be the liberation of your soul will become its jail cell.
Every poem: a love letter, a confession. A love letter to yourself, to the natural world, to another. Write it for the ears of to whom the letter is dedicated— not for the eyes of who might later stumble upon it, who might judge whether this love was love.
No, there is no such thing as poetry. Do not look at a paper and say, “I am going to write a poem.” Look at your heart and ask what it has to say. Do not judge its answer. Give it the pen. Do not stand in the way. The river will flow. You will later look and say: that is a poem. Almost by accident, it happened.
More important than the what of your writing is the why, the why is where the “poem” exists. “Why” is the lifeblood of human existence; the lifeblood of human existence is poetry’s ink.
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Sometimes, the old Catholic in me
rears its pious head, telling me
that prayer looks like aching knees
and the scrubbing of my shame,
until the grime of my very aliveness
soon after builds again—
but that gentler voice within
blows this smoke away
with but a whisper,
asking me how I want to pray today,
and what part of my body would like to do the praying?
is it my feet,
dancing in the grass,
is it my hands,
tracing an oak?
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 