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Value

A child where I work was having a hard time last night. It was one of those times when you just want to be left alone to sort out your thoughts and feelings for yourself, but people keep prying and trying to get you to bend to their will. He had gotten pretty worked up, and really needed to be left alone. Yet because he said some things that indicated he might hurt himself, he also had to be supervised. I managed to intervene and get him twenty minutes of personal space. I stayed near him, and my night-shift supervisor was near, but we both had the presence of mind not to talk to him except to quietly state a couple of simple expectations—basically the time he had available for self reflection.

I could see pain and rage in his eyes, and I could relate. He talked of being worthless earlier, and I wondered if that had something to do with it all. When he said he was worthless, I explained to him then that there is a big difference between “being” and “feeling” worthless. I told him, “you feel worthless, but this is not the same as actually being worthless.” I made it clear to him that to feel worthless is to feel worthless, but that feeling worthless doesn’t actually mean you’re worthless—It is a feeling only.

He seemed to catch on, though it took a while. Later, after he had calmed down some, I heard him tell my supervisor, “I hate feeling worthless.” It was nice to see him recognize and look it as a feeling. He ended up going to sleep. And as the night wore on I found myself reflecting on that look I noticed in his eyes.

Value

for a particular youth

I watched the cyclone raging through your mind
behind the storm front of your gray-blue eyes;
I felt the gale wind thrust of every word
you bellowed to the over-clouded skies.

And here is what I saw: An empty place.
A realm so foreign to the world of men
that few could bear to grasp or understand
the magnitude of desolation there.

The ground as far as I could see was razed,
wiped free of every feature bearing hope;
a river seethed throughout the barren fields,
filled with poisons welled from pools loss.

All horizons bore the faintest touch
of mountains, jagged shadows ripped from time;
the sky was silver-gray with high-spun clouds,
the kind that never break to show the sun.

And here were you, hunched over on your knees,
your fingers clutched into the ash gray soil,
stunned into a state of pallid shock,
silent, still, and breathing low and mild.

I could not guess what leveled all you knew
and left you magically alive—alone.
But when I heard you murmur, “I am worthless,”
I creepingly began to understand.

Dear Soul! What worthless thing could hold!?
What petty life could face such storms of loss!?
What worthlessness could carry on despite
the emptiness of such a barren scape!?

This life is yours! This plane of dreams your own!
Whatever storms have left you thus are gone.
Now you must stand and walk until you grasp
the nature of your reconfigured lands!

Stand tall! For you have shown your truest mettle.
You have endured where most have failed and died.
Your face still holds the will to learn and grow—
So go! Explore the landscapes of your life.

Those distant mountains surely harbor hopes.
And they are yours, so go and see what kind.
But you must leave this place of tragedy,
this epicenter of your broken past.

This place is but a fragment of your soul.
There is much more to you than what you see.
Beyond those mountains continents are filled
with every form of possibility.

For there are treasures hidden in your world,
and there are forests standing green and wild,
but you must make the survey of your soul,
to learn your inner worth and sense of value.

I’d like to give him a copy of this poem, but there are strict policies in place concerning client-staff relations. Giving him a copy would be entering into a gray area that may or may not have repercussions. So I’ll err on the side of personal safety.

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Echolalia

As I read an in-depth article on the differentia of Verse, Prose, and Poetry, I stumbled across something called echolalia. A beautiful sounding word. Too bad it’s more or less useless outside pathology, educational psychology, and the trivia of obscure definitions. Still, I wanted to play with the concept, and so I ended up tapping this out.

Echolalia

Stars are falling falling through the dark
and through the dark a strong wind thrusts and parries
a strong wind thrust and parries like a sword
thrusts and parries like a long broad sword
and like a long broad sword your words cut deep
your words cut deep and disconnect the tendons
disconnect the tendons of my trust
my trust which slacks and falls like quartered meat
which slacks and falls like quartered meat for sell

I reminisce on stars for some strange reason
for some strange reason I remember stars
I remember stars which fell and faded
which fell and faded in the long dark night
and in the long dark night we held each other
we held each other by curling sea
and by the curling sea our toes were curled
our toes were curled with broken ecstasy
in broken ecstasy we slid to sleep

And stars are falling now from baring skies
from baring skies which deepen like a flood
which deepen like a flood of blackest water
of blackest water spread throughout my soul
spread throughout my soul like acid loss
an acid loss that eats away my trust
that eats away my trust until I’m left
until I’m left like bleached and barren bone
like bleached and barren bone devoid of life

The content is more or less inspired by actual feelings and events. And despite the silliness of the poem, the impact of the echolalia is kind of surprising.

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sea dog

I was reflecting on how Robert Service, a favorite poet of mine, would write poems in various Scottish, British, and other dialects. Some of these poems are very moving. For instance, “Bills Grave” and “Pooch”. If you read them, you might suspect that Service was well acquainted with the dialect used in the first poem, as well as the mindset, and that he more or less guessed at the dialect used in the second poem. I believe the first uses a Northern England dialect, where he grew up, and the second uses the dialect of a Black American, possibly Southern.

I was also reflecting on this book I had just finished reading, The Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty by Sebastian Barry. The nature of the story was such as to cause me a lot of after-read reflection, and there was some life at sea involved therein.

So, with all this stirring about in my brain, I found myself tapping out a few phrases, and shortly thereafter, my 21st villanelle fell out thus.

sea dog

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Writing poetry in various dialects is something I plan to explore over time, so it was nice to have this experience. The title was suggested by Chris England, an acquaintance I run into at the cafes here in Ukiah.

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regret

Regret is a powerful force of emotion, but it is not easy to depict in poetry. I once left someone I loved to be with someone I was infatuated with. Who knows why we do such things. Years later I found myself looking back on that decision with savage, ravaging pangs of regret.

regret

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.

You may have noticed that the subject is not approached in the usual manner here. Throughout the years, I have been admonished over and over to “just say what I feel” when writing poetry, as if just saying that I have regrets, that it hurts, and talking about what happened to cause them is somehow poetry. It’s not. No matter how I chopped up the lines, this could never create a poem; it could only create prose that’s been chopped into short lines.

Poetry is in part the art of expressing such feelings using only depiction so that he who reads will be overcome by a sense of empathy and relation without ever being asked to empathize or relate. A poem on a subject such as this should manage to completely avoid ever saying anything along the lines of, “I feel regret,” or “I regret XYZ.” This is the job of prose. The poem, if successful, should awaken that regret within the reader as an emotion he can own for himself without ever being told to do so.

In the case of this poem, I use the title to create the expectation of a normal gush of chopped prose on the subject of regret only to seemingly evade the expectation entirely, leaving the last stanza to bring the title home in an entirely jarring and unexpected manner—like the thrust of a dagger.

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Exhale

This, my 9th trisect poem, is inspired by my experience of learning to play the bansuri flute. I have a long way to go still, but people no longer run for the hills when I play, which I hope means I’m getting better.

Segment one depicts the bansuri flute itself, by way of its origin and construction. Segment two depicts breath, without which the bansuri is just a piece of wood. Segment three depicts my process of learning to play.

      Exhale

            Reed

            Shoots reach forth and crack the earth
      with nodes that telescope into the air
until green blades dance out and sway against the sky

            A column falls before the saw
      drifting like a feather through its peers
    which lean and separate with rustle whisk and clack
until the parted clone lies cradled lightly in their midst

            Hollow sections lose their green
      hardened by the touch of open flame
until the thin walls cure to caramel colored hues

            Blemishes are smoothed away
      a plug is set with delicate precision
    bores probe and burn with care an empty space inside
until the slightest sigh sends echoes coursing through the wood
 

            Motion

            Ribs expand like gaping jaws
      and current rushes through a maze of tubes
to fuse with membranes hidden deep within the shell

            Rivers churn within their walls
      cycled through an all pervasive flow
    from channels of aeration through rapids fraught with force
to many-fingered deltas strewn across half-charted planes

            Bones contract a casual grip
      and moisture dissipates into the air
to mingle with a stream of circumscribing winds

            rained in far-flung alpine lakes
      absorbed by rolling seas of desert sand
    and perspired from the leaves of oaks and conifers
to drizzle dew on blades of grass half a world away
 

            Ambience

            Fingers dance on shades of brown
      as whispers vibrate down a narrow shaft
in waves that slowly learn their resonance and form

            Night after night uncertain sounds
      gather confidence beneath the moon
    phasing with the silhouettes of cherry trees
in movements half remembered from a long forgotten age

            Expression gradually finds its way
      to sagebrush valleys ponderosa peaks
in subtle overtones that grow in strength until

            timbres weave through redwood trees
      like whale song steeped in oceanic gloom
    resounding off sheer outcrops covered thick with moss
in undertones that settle like a mist among the ferns

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beads

I found myself writing this in response to a blog post someone made at MySpace, back when I had a MySpace account. She was one of two girls who used to make it a point to sit at my table when they saw me at Denny’s or one of the local coffee houses. I never understood why. When they did, they would strike up completely random conversation. I just entertained them like a good host since I didn’t see the harm.

At some point they found my MySpace account and sent me friend requests, which I accepted. The younger one, while intelligent and intriguing in her own right, had an unusually strong negative streak which she would spill into her blog like an acid.

beads

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

After responding to her bitter tirade with this poem, she and her friend soon lost interest in me. Kind of strange since I was under the impression that they were curious about me because I would sit in the coffee houses or at Denny’s working on poems, which they would ask about. Ah well.

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unperched

Some people seem to think of relationships—intimate, platonic, or professional—simply as a means of subjugating others to their will through emotional and/or financial dependency. Such people will encourage you to become emotionally and/or financially dependent upon them so that they can then use this as as leverage.

If you start to act or think too independently of what they like then they’ll distance themselves from you or suddenly become stingy as punishment. And if you persist with such independent behavior, they will eventually sever all ties and bid adieu, convinced to the core that they have just destroyed your life in retribution for not subjugating yourself entirely to their will. But, the reality is that people are more complex than this and, generally, the will to survive and move on is very strong.

unperched

perhaps you forgot that
    birds have wings

perhaps you failed to realize
    clipped feathers regrow

the downy breast will fight
    the storm for freedom

clawed feet will grip a cold
    wet branch for shelter

the beak by night will fold
    in its own soft shield

and by day peck out
    its hard won forage

but never will it probe again
    the ruins of its nest

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Confounded

Before starting this poem, I spent several days reading up on various subjects that I felt pertained in some way to tensions and circumstances that not only led to the demise of my marriage, but my choice in women and the types of relationships I get into in general. Subjects included attachment theory and related disorders in adults and children, including some of the methods employed to help children and adults overcome their “attachment disorders”. Along with this I read up on human bonding, age disparity theory, and even read a little about the limbic system, amongst other things—Just things I wanted to know about.

This lead me to reflecting on the nature of play in relation to my early and mid childhood “attachment traumas” and realizing that I’ve never experienced what’s referred to in attachment theory as a healthy “secure attachment”. Secure attachment is what allows a child to feel safe exploring and playing in ways that are constructive and developmentally sound. If there’s some problem with the child’s attachment system, then play becomes more reactionary than natural due to the lack of a secure attachment base to return to. A lot of this stuff made sense to me and jives nicely with my own reflections.

Looking back, I was able to remember enough to realize that one of the first casualties of my childhood was play and playfulness. I was a very serious child, and I tended to use play to express my general state of anxiety, distrust, and ambivalence, destroying my toys and those things I would make with them—with building blocks and Lincoln logs for example—rather than letting them stand awhile, and then tearing them down for the sake of building something else. I didn’t build things for the sake of seeing and enjoying the creative fruits of my labors; I built them for the sake of their destruction.

This was a mode of expression, an enactment of my inner state—reactive play rather than constructive natural play. So, I meditated on this and then wrote my 20th hybridanelle.

Confounded

The stones that should have formed a stable base
  were shifted out beneath your primal needs;
    the wood that should have framed your living place
        splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate
            and left you wailing naked in the wind,
                  ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.

Tremors filled your soul with rolling dreads,
  so that your own creations, wrought with care,
    were shifted out beneath your primal needs,
        reduced to disarray in manifest dismay
            as wooden joists and girders in your mind
                  splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate.

And as you grew, you found yourself unsure;
  you stacked your Lincoln logs and building blocks
    so that your own creations, wrought with care,
        were never meant to last and fell to every blast
            that leveled self respect and left you stunned,
                  ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.

You strove to transfer fundamental shocks
  throughout your play; depicting fell effects,
    you stacked your Lincoln logs and building blocks
        and with profound expression smashed at your discretion,
            every symbol housing hope destroyed,
                  splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate.

Those first potentials of your intellect
  were swept away by rage and disregard;
    throughout your play, depicting fell effects,
        your structures each collapsed as inspiration lapsed
            until you grieved the wreckage of your hand,
                  ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.

And now you limp through life disabled, scarred;
  the stones that should have formed a stable base
    were swept away by rage and disregard;
      the wood that should have framed your living place
          rotted from neglect and left you derelict,
              dwelling in the ruins left behind—
                  splintered from the weight of bitterness and hate—
                        ambivalent at best and doubting every trust.

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Fuzzy Time

“Fuzzy time” is a term used where I work to describe the time between about 3:30 and 5:30 AM, when the ghosts seem pretty active, and the psyche more susceptible. Life takes on the surreal hues of dream during this time, sometimes making it a little unclear as to what is real and what is not.

          Fuzzy Time

               a little hand taps
          out circles of doubt
past slower moments
          until the glass cracks
     shattering time

               cold moments pulsate
          through radar temples
deep into memory
          where doorframes sentinel
     long dark halls

               beige walls with plastic
          wood veneer blur
into a long dirty strip
          of brown decay
     half vacuumed

               waking dreams irrupt
          on long still hours
like headlights from the void
          minutes whitewashed
     with faces half remembered

               syncopated snores
          crack the varied drones
of forced industrial air
          muffled boombox beats
     and mental monologues

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Endure

Life can take some unexpected turns, and the path to which we have dedicated ourselves may lead through every kind loss and tragedy. But in the end we must simply endure, for life isn’t always easy or fair, and the potential for discovering new meaning and value lies always just ahead.

      Endure

      The path may wind up slopes of ankle twisting shale,
            and over ridges overwhelmed with loss;
yet each step carries on through triumph and dismay.

            The path may weave through swamps and belching bogs,
through alpine heights where acid springs bleed lethal streams and ponds,
            and over ridges overwhelmed with loss,

      only to drop through valleys baked barren by the sun,
            until it rises up again to lead
through alpine heights where acid springs bleed lethal streams and ponds.

            The path may shrink and seem to disappear
through thickets barbed with venom thorns or leech-filled undergrowth
      until it rises up again to lead

      through places not unlike the sorrows known before
            and on through every emptiness and pain—
through thickets barbed with venom thorns or leech-filled undergrowth.

            Through crackled desolation, blasts of rain,
      the path may wind up slopes of ankle twisting shale
            and on through every emptiness and pain;
yet each step carries on through triumph and dismay.

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Alone

Tonight I came across a poem blogged by a woman who feels alone and lost, and the poem was basically asking ten ways to none who’s going to save her from feeling so alone. To me it seems bizarre that a pretty lady would have such thoughts, since it’s really easy for women to get male attention. It’s generally a good deal harder for men. However, I found myself sympathizing and commented with an earlier variation of the following.

Alone

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Well, not complete sympathy, considering she’ll be able to land pretty much the man of her choice once she figures out how the whole male-female human interrelations thing works. At least for short durations (most men seem to be unreliable as loyal long-term partners). But, in the deserts of loneliness, it is we who must save ourselves, scraping our way across the barren steppes toward the ever elusive springs of inner peace. I don’t see how another can really save us individually from our own loneliness.