All of us still mere children and dumb
No way to release any of that pent-up spunk and energy
All at once joined perfectly and exploding with bright light and tears
I stay awake, big spoon, caretaker, watching your ribcage rise and fall
I knew, when I quieted enough to listen, really listen, to what my body whispered
Hold me steady, keeping me from falling or freezing or from punching someone in the face
The silverware-falling-from-the-sky-far-far-away sound in my ears
I get so tired of all the honesty
Addicted to affirmation, to performance, to love and good-looking boyfriends
I looked out the window, but there was nothing but black
Warmth enveloped me, holding my body like a lover, like a mother, like a child
Cradling each other’s vulnerable hearts, a lifetime’s worth of serenity in a single moment
Rebirth, the gift of another breath, another chance, a shot at starting over
I see and I understand because I have been there, too
I get so tired of all the honesty.
Shut up, will you? Kiss me.
Wouldn’t a fight feel good right now?
I’m always hurting someone. I’m always sorry.
Pet your cat. Eat your breakfast cereal. Sail through life.
I feel the loss before I’m even out the door.
I drop my key through the mail slot.
The words I wish I could take back, the intentional hurt, the beating, the slap in the face, the punch in the gut, the gunshot through the heart.
I miss you.
One more, sure. One more drink. One more make-out session. One more condom wrapper torn open with your teeth. Fuck it.
No umbrella, no raincoat, no car, no cab fare home.
I’ll wear the same clothes to work tomorrow. No one will notice.
I’ll sleep under my desk. I’ll shower at the gym. I’ll get breakfast at Starbucks.
Beer breath, saliva thick, sucking my dick, sweating, humid, sticky, summer, mosquitoes in the room, blood stain on the sheet where you smacked one dead, the buzz of a neon sign, the tick of a loud clock, unfamiliar sounds.
When you close your eyes, I get to stare.
You open your eyes, you catch me staring.
You smile.
APRIL IS OVER, BUT the poetryfest continues. I’m not at all sure it’s any good, but I have enjoyed writing a poem every day, and so I’ll keep on doing it into May and for as long as it still feels right. It’s also good practice for me, a reminder to write from places other than my head.
I started the month by asking on Facebook if any of my friends wanted me to write a poem about them, and that provided material for the first few days. Since then, other poems—maybe most of them—have also been inspired by individuals, but on a more immediate level, as in, who affected me emotionally today? If you look around, these people are everywhere. You probably don’t need me to tell you that.
This one was inspired by a musician friend of my roommate who stayed with us.
Bodhisattva on the Couch
I’m starting to get it, my kind teacher,
Bodhisattva sleeping on my couch
A lesson learned only once you’d gone
Drumming, drumming, the beating of hearts
Riding the wave of it, I drop something heavy
Crack open from the inside out
The peacefulness of it floods me
Washing away imperfections, stains,
Insecurity, doubt, loneliness, pain
I am left with my open-wideness
Ready to head into the world without fear
And try it out on someone
Going right up to some boy I’ve only just met
And saying, “You are beautiful,
Not just outside, inside too
I love you. I see you”
Because it’s true
He looks into my eyes, knows I mean it
Wishing happiness and nothing more
No obligation, no expectation
No agenda, no hiding, no sleaze. I smile
For this is true love
It demands nothing at all
Though if he were to offer something
Like love for me in return
I would gladly accept
Such a generous gift
THERE ARE THREE things top of mind these days that I could talk about: my poetry month challenge, my fiction and how it messes with my head, and how sexual attraction works and if we have the power to change it. Three good topics. Let’s start with poetry. I can tell you about the other two things another time, if you want. Remind me.
I like these challenges that are all over social media nowadays, where you’re supposed to do something every day for a month. As April drew near, I was faced with two choices: write a poem a day for National Poetry Month or do the 30-day Rewild Your Life challenge. They each sounded like good ideas, but I knew I couldn’t do them both. And I wasn’t sure I could actually spend 30 minutes every day out in nature, much as I’d like to try. I decided to do the poems.
I guess I could post some samples, but the truth is, I’m afraid to. Poetry seems even more personal and revealing than fiction. At least my poetry does. And if you’ve read my fiction, that’s saying something. Most days, I’ve written about whatever had the strongest emotional pull on me that day. Some of it’s pretty raw, diary-like stuff, including one poem that references Bread’s “Diary,” come to think of it. Does that make me a bad poet?
Which brings me to the other reason I hesitate to post my poems: I am not at all sure they’re any good. When it comes to poetry, I have to admit I haven’t the slightest idea what I’m doing. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s even a good thing. Or maybe my poems are just not so hot.
Why the self-doubt? It’s not like me, I know. Truth is, I have always had an uncomfortable relationship with poetry. For many years, I just didn’t get it. I didn’t like it, quite honestly. It always seemed a little loosey-goosey, like you could make mistakes and say “I meant to do that,” kind of like jazz.
I was young and stupid. My ideas about poetry (and jazz) have changed. Lately, I’ve heard some very, very good poetry, and I am frankly mystified at how it’s done. Great poets amaze and intimidate me. I aspire to learn what these geniuses are doing.
I will admit I like some of what I’ve written. I went back and reread it all, 27 poems so far, and there are moments. I don’t know if there are whole poems that work, but they almost all have something going for them. Isn’t that what writing is so often about? Finding the gems.
I’ve shared a few poems with people for whom they were written, and their reactions have been good. That could just be gratitude at having had a poem written for them. Maybe they’re just being nice. Or the poems could be good.
As with any kind of writing, it takes skill honed through a lot of practice to get good at it. I know this. It doesn’t just happen. And maybe that’s where my doubt comes in. When I write poetry, it’s kind of like freewriting, where it flows out of me and onto the page uncensored. It does just happen, in other words. There can often be something very special in that kind of writing, I know. I just don’t always trust it.
When I write that way, sometimes I feel like I’m in a trance. Does it sound any good to someone who’s not also in a trance? This might be one of those things like the Grateful Dead, who—no offense—sound extremely awesome to stoned people and just all right to the rest of us. But then, does any group have more dedicated fans?
It is always going to come down to connecting with some people and not with others. If I write honestly from the heart, it’s likely someone will read what I’ve written and feel a resonance. What is good writing anyway? To me, it’s writing that makes people feel something. It happens or it doesn’t. When you know you’ve connected as a writer, there’s no better feeling.
So, yeah, maybe I’ll post a few things once the month is over. I’ll sift through it all again, find the gems, and polish them up. Just so long as I don’t smooth out all the rough edges.
I can't believe Dave X Robb doesn't have a blog 