Tag Archives: Poetry

On My Mind

The Book

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I didn’t want to read it
not because I didn’t want to read it
but because you gave it to me
and I was tired of fitting into whatever form
you chose for me.

So I held it in my hands and looked at it
put it away
took it out again
in spite of myself.
I didn’t want to read it. I knew where it would go
when I was done. I knew where I would leave it
so I didn’t have to look at it anymore.

I was angry,
and surprised that I was angry,
and not surprised because I’ve been angry. It’s not
the first time, and I no longer know
where the truth ends and the anger
begins. I no longer know
what the truth is and why
it tastes different
now.

But so ferocious? So much
red energy, so much
white-hot attention?
There was suddenly so much
space and
in the space I thought of things I had never
thought of before and
in the space I may have changed the story,
may have rewritten the part I played and
the part you played, and
maybe it wasn’t all that it had been, and maybe
looking in from the outside was absolutely
right.

Or so I’d been told before. And the reflection in the mirror
was uncannily similar.
Didn’t you do that to me once, too?

But you can’t make my decisions anymore
so I read it. And I’m glad that I did.
But I won’t thank you for it. I won’t be,
again, what you chose for me.
I won’t say, “But that’s not me!” for fear of
the response I had
once before
when your face opened into a question
that seemed to say,
“But I wanted you to be.”

On My Mind

Untitled Poetry

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I dreamed I couldn’t find you, even though I knew exactly where I’d left you and you told me where you’d be. 
I dreamed I couldn’t find you, even though I looked under every rock and behind every tree in all of those places, right where you should have been.

Sometimes I think you don’t want to be found, that you take a moment off alone just to be alone. 
I understand because I do that, too, or I take the road less travelled, the unbeaten path, just to see where it will go and to be away for a while.
Usually, I find, I haven’t been missed. 
I like the solitude of airplanes because I can step away without explanation.

It didn’t make sense in my dream that I couldn’t find you, and my dream self knew it. 
So I looked around, bemused.
You were there, somewhere, because you said you’d be.

Instead I closed my eyes and waited.

And when I opened them again,
you were right in front of me.

On My Mind

I Wonder

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I wonder how much of what’s on paper is real. I wonder how much of poetry comes from life lived.

A few months ago, I started reading a book of poetry* aloud. I’ve carried it around town and read under the tree, in the park, by the fountain. I carry a blue pen with me, slight weight, fine black ink, the kind of pen that was made to tell stories rather than sign papers, I like to think. The kind of pen that’s meant to be enjoyed rather than kept in a box on a desk for special occasions, but also the kind of pen I’d be sad to lose, so I left it at home once, and those pages are easy to find in my journal because they don’t look like the other pages. I haven’t left it at home since.

I carry a blue pen with me and I annotate, underline, fold down page corners, record dates. I read aloud and sometimes I reread, sometimes I stop because the words have become the sound of my voice and I need to go back to the words. I read aloud and sometimes there are people around and sometimes I stop just to take it all in.

There’s something about the words that makes me braver than I am, that reminds me that I am all I have, that assures me that when everything falls apart again, there’s a way to rebuild.

I can still see the look in your eyes I can’t read, hear the chorus that told me what I already knew and didn’t want to know.

Sometimes I wonder if you’re as scared as I am.

And I laugh at myself for wondering because you’re not. You never were. I wonder if that’s how I seem, too, and I wonder if that’s why I can’t read that look in your eyes.

How much of poetry comes from life lived?

Weimar, Germany – March 2022

*River Flow by David Whyte