Form and Formlessness

Posted on February 27, 2022February 27, 2022 by EAT

The Fritillary’s Flight

It is often the plight of a poet to find themselves reflecting on a story heard or overheard until the inspiration mounts to explore and extrapolate upon it through poetry. The story behind this poem is not mine to tell, so I won’t.

The Fritillary’s Flight

You wove up through divergent ancestries
into being, knowing full well—
I have to believe—
your time could be brief, not much
more than a fritillary’s scattered flight
through high desert meadows.

A parent finds something like religion
in gazing upon their firstborn child—
There is wonder, hope, and yes… worry.
You come, eyes bright
as a newborn star,
radiating life in all directions,
the dimmest horizon now bright
with possibility.

You blessed us with infinite trust…
frailness and uncertainty.
The scaffolding of your perfect being
contained but one irregularity, leaving
your new home exposed to invisible
dangers. Yet still you smiled,
laughed and pointed… and as all things
living must, sometimes cried.

We learn quickly
something is wrong—your body
will not fight disease,
the prognosis unclear and
fraught with dread.

Still we raise weary eyes to your coos
and meet your needs
as we smile back fathomless fears.
Still we scour journals, consult experts,
and visit doctors who assuage—
as best they can—with that fabled
rhetoric of the powerless.
Still we call out with all that we are
for a benevolent spirit to hear,
heed, and come forth to our aid.

And somehow, through miracle, science—
or both—there has been a glimmer
of better days to come,
of the feel of grass, fresh high desert air,
the touch and unfettered laugh of playmates.

We will be here through all that comes—
and never waver—in the hope that one day
it will be you who approaches two long plots
of earth with flowers, memories, and
gratitude.
Where we, having lived out the fullness
of our days, wait in the rustling
leaves of a cottonwood to hear you
speak of love, loss, joy, pain—the entire
fullness of living.

And maybe you will hear our joy and pride
whispered in the slight brush
of a fritillary’s powdered wings just near
your outstretched ears.

Posted on January 31, 2022August 30, 2023 by EAT

In Sickness

I made a note for the idea behind this poem when my wife was dying from refeeding syndrome in 2018. At the time, I was way too close to the matter to even think about writing a poem like this. But, now some time has passed, and my wife survived to regain her health again.

In Sickness

If I knew then what now I know,
would I still take the vows?
Would I still pledge my life to you
beneath the cherry boughs?

Your arms are like a skeleton;
your face is gaunt and frail.
A bag is taped against your side
collecting what you spill.

Would I still bear the looming loss
if somehow then I knew
what “sickness” meant so long ago
within that heavy vow?

You vomit everything you eat;
your heart rate will not slow.
Each day it seems you’re nearer yet
the place we all must go.

The truth is, I have no idea—
The man I was back then
might well have taken every step
to circumvent this end.

The doctors at the hospital—
They have no reason why
you will not stabilize and heal—
I fight back bitter sighs.

But he is not the man that’s here.
For all my fear and grief,
I will not turn away from you
so long as you draw breath.

Turns out there is a fairly high percentage of cancer patients who die from refeeding syndrome—a metabolic cascade failure that ends in death—especially with large stage 3 tumors. This is because the tumor takes all the body’s nutrients, essentially starving the patient. When the tumor is gone, the effect can be just like the prisoner of war returning to a normal diet for the first time after rescue, which can trigger the syndrome.

Unfortunately, it seems most doctors don’t know to look for this. It was pure chance that someone on my wife’s medical team realized what was happening and started the protocol for saving her life—parenteral nutrition. This means being fed intravenously until the body remembers how to correctly metabolize food through the digestive system on its own.

Posted on December 25, 2021 by EAT

The Seekers

I am not currently working on any project poems, and I don’t plan to start one any time soon. Hopefully this means my mental space will be freed up for more spontaneous writes such as this:

The Seekers

For as long as I can remember
I’ve watched them grope,
fumbling through dark places
over jagged, uneven surfaces.

I’ve watched them wander long
grey corridors, faces gaunt,
shoulders slouching faded sighs,
feet reechoing short, tired scuffs.

I’ve seen their distorted figures
through stain glass windows, heads
bowed, arms raised, faces creased
with longing for the slightest sign.

I’ve even seen them half concealed
by timbers on their way to peaks
and rivers to seek out some hidden
solace, some priceless psychic gem.

But, somehow I think it’s up there,
slipping between the stars, bits
and pieces sometimes flaring bright
streaks of insight within the night.

This was sparked more by a feeling than a thought. The feeling was invoked by a poem I read in a Facebook group, though I can no longer recall the poem or what it was about. Four of the five stanzas actually formed very quickly, but it didn’t feel finished, so I put it aside for a while. This was a few months back.

Recently I looked at it again and just kind of knew where and what the missing stanza should be and then it was done. Funny how that works.

Posted on November 8, 2021December 14, 2022 by EAT

Boxcars

During my early 20s I was friends with a man who was also one of the staff who worked at the last residential home I lived in as a teen—not long before I ran away. I was still pretty feral in those days, so I eventually ended up damaging the relationship beyond repair and never saw or heard from him again.

But before this happened he passed on a piece of wisdom to me during a time when I really needed to hear it that involved a new way of looking at and dealing with my thoughts—seriously dark thoughts and intentions that absorbed a great deal of mental space in those days:

Boxcars

A steel-bell clamor echoes through the air
in time with frenzied flashes warning red;
the long arm of the crossing gate is down;
behind it boxcars rumble down the rails.

Some are old, the corrugated frames
bleed rustic patterns through the faded paint.
Some are new, unblemished angles gleam
the colors of a harvest fresh from field.

The doors gape wide, revealing vivid worlds
that move within the spaces as they pass,
each one reflecting back a hope, a fear,
a grim regret, a powerful desire.

The spacious confines beckon one by one—
the broken promises, the lasting doubts,
the things that could have been, the grand designs—
the vengeful plans that ache within the heart.

The cars move slowly—such that if you ran,
you could with little trouble hop aboard
and there within the confines of a thought
be carried off away to who-knows-where.

Nearby a tunnel opens to a plane
of deep uncertainty; it is from here
the many cars emerge to clangor by
and disappear around a far off bend.

I’ve been here many times throughout the years,
the way ahead obscured by vagaries
that mesmerize the mind with strange allure
and goad the impetus to jump aboard.

Sometimes a car would pass reflecting back
distorted visions holding such appeal
the urge to run and climb aboard would quell
all sensibility and self control.

Then suddenly I’d find myself within
a lucid fancy on that train of thought,
so thoroughly immersed in reverie
I soon lost sight of where I was or went.

And drifting through the shadows of a dream
of what could be or what there might have been—
or some depraved indulgence deep within—
I found myself displaced from all that is.

And only after hours, days, or weeks
would I regain my senses and return
to where I was before I leapt aboard
whatever fancy lured me from my path.

But through the years I’ve learned to let them pass,
allowing each to come and each to go
until once more the way ahead is clear,
the red caboose diminishing from view.

What he told me was simple: Instead of denying or rebuking the thoughts that troubled me, allow them to come, and then allow them to go—like the boxcars on a freight train at a train crossing. Let them come; let them go. Don’t hop on and get taken for a ride.

It took a while—many years in fact—but I worked at it and gradually got better at this practice. It helped a lot when I one day realized that the process of rebuking and trying to deny the thoughts and feelings that troubled me was also a form of hopping aboard.

Posted on July 13, 2021July 14, 2021 by EAT

Broken

Today is the anniversary of my father’s suicide. He used his trousers to strangle himself to death early in the morning 40 years ago today while being held overnight in the Monterey City jail’s drunk tank in California.

For most of my life, probably starting the very next year after his death, I forgot what day he died on. But, every June I’d begin to destabilize emotionally in various ways and this would come to a head by the end of the second week of July with some kind of epic breakdown—all without my remembering his death date.

Last year, on July 13th, a Monday—he died on a Monday—I suddenly remembered as my shift ended at work that he used to suffocate me in my sleep. This psychopath would cup his big hand over my little face in my sleep, closing off my airway entirely, so that I woke up in a panic, clawing and freaked out, until I passed back out again. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt his hand, I felt the absolute terror and helplessness of waking to suffocation, and I gasped and gasped for air with this vivid memory until I hyperventilated my way into the ER.

Why did he do this? I don’t fucking know. No-one in my family will even verify this memory, including my sister who has told me many times over the years that he would hold my jaw closed in my sleep when I would grind my teeth—which she now denies ever telling me. But this isn’t the resurfaced memory anyway. The intent was clearly to suffocate me unconscious, and the trauma surrounding this abuse is extreme and ongoing.

So, in memory of my father’s 40th deathaversary:

Broken

You were a broken man…
I know this.

And though you have long since
turned to ash
your broken hand still rests
upon my shoulders.

In those days I had no way
to understand you
except as something
to fear,

and terribly so.

When you were gone—
the moment I knew—
I felt relief.
Yet your touch remained.

When you were gone—
the moment I understood—
I felt gripping loss,
your grip finally loosened.

When you were gone—
the moment I grasped its meaning—
I felt searing guilt.
Your rage had been extinguished,

and could burn no more.

And when you were gone,
I never once wondered why
you never came to say goodbye
somewhere in my dreams.

Yet
I still could feel
the broken weight of your hand
pressing, squeezing, clawing
somewhere in my spirit.

You were a broken man…
And you broke your small boy
with the terrible, violent weight
of your broken hand,

a touch that reaches still—
like the sting of cigarette smoke—
from the dreaming.

So, yes, another cathartic poem. I swore some years back that I’d use poetry more for artistic, highfalutin endeavors. Because, you know, I’d like to be a more serious, highfalutin poet. But, whatever. I’m a person and I’ve been through a lot.

In the end I should consider that poetry saved my life as a teen. So maybe catharsis is also a part of giving back to the spirit of this muse.

Posted on June 29, 2021 by EAT

One more breath

Sometimes I start writing a poem based on a feeling that I don’t really know how to express. And, here even with the poem written, I’m still not certain what the feeling was that inspired it. Though the poem focuses on the decision to not commit suicide throughout my life, this doesn’t really represent the feeling from which it began.

One more breath

My life was over…
Rivers of poison flowed through
my veins and every fiber of being

My spirit was dark with dread,
insurmountable dread, dread instilled
by willful neglect, countless curses,
endless threats and blows.

A thing like strychnine or a cobra’s venom
coursed throughout my thoughts,
through the depths of my psyche,
my subtle form and corrupted even
the shattered crystal mist of my
soul.

There was no life support for a sickness
such as this, where the light within
grew so dim and obscured it could
no longer be seen, or even felt.

I wanted only to live a moment more,
so I took in a breath and cried to the stars,
“Then all I ask is you take from me
this fear of dying.”
And the moment passed.

I wanted only to live for one more day,
so I screamed out by the tireless river,
almost in rage, “Then all I ask is
you take from me this one terror.”
And the night passed.

Again and again I found myself with no
divider yearning to swerve into bright
headlights. Again and again I found
myself on top of cliffs yearning
to fling myself from sorrow.
And the moments passed.

There was no reason to believe
in a life beyond tomorrow,
today,
or even the moment…

But here I am
looking back on yesterdays,
yesteryears,
decades

that never should have been.
And for the moment,
that yearning has passed
yet again.

So, what was feeling? I’m sure it’s woven into the subtext somewhere. If I had to guess, maybe it’s a sort of wonderment that I’m still alive despite feeling so undeserving of life overall. Or, maybe it’s this ever-present sense of dismay and unease at the fact that this urge or desire to be done with life along with the associated thought processes—the poison—still remains.

Maybe it’s both.

Posted on May 9, 2021August 6, 2023 by EAT

The Two Gods

The idea for this poem goes back to my early 20s—more than half a lifetime ago. I guess it took me a while to find the brain-space to flush it out.

The Two Gods

The Concrete God and the Abstract God sat down one day for tea
to talk about affairs of fate and solemn mysteries.

“They named this city after me,” The Concrete God began.
“There rising at its center looms my monument by man.

“Night and day they praise my name within the vaulted hall,
beseeching after every kind of blessing great and small.”

The Abstract God was unimpressed by what was said, yet smiled,
“This tea is quite delicious, and the evening air is mild.”

“And what of you,” the Concrete God went on, “Who praises you?
Where are your names reechoed up by altar, mat or pew?”

The Abstract God drank down another sip of tea and gazed
across the sprawling cityscape where spires loomed in haze,

the ones to which the Concrete God referred wherein his name
reverberates from ancient walls of stone with high acclaim.

The Concrete God raised prying eyes, still waiting for reply;
the Abstract God took in a breath and started with a sigh,

“Those who know me also know there is no name for me.
I am the breeze that bends the grass and moves the canopy;

I am the light that shimmers through between the shifting leaves,
the rumpling sound that rises up where wandering waters weave.”

The Concrete God now took a sip and pondered what was said;
And then, “No name! It seems to me the nameless are the dead.”

“Perhaps,” the Abstract God replied, “if you are bound to name,
its absence may induce a state that’s very much the same.

“But I have been since long before the conscious thought occurred
to name each thing the mind perceives or manifests with words.”

“But surely there’s a name for you,” the Concrete God appealed,
“for humankind is wont to name whatever is revealed.”

“They name the things they see and feel,” the Abstract God returned,
“but I exist beyond the reach of what can be discerned.

“They name the grass; they name the leaf; they name the brook and breeze;
they name the very thoughts they think; but I am none of these.”

The Concrete God looked down his nose, “And yet I heard you say
that there are those who know you here among the living clay.”

“Indeed,” the Abstract God again, “but as I said before,
they also know I have no name to worship and adore.”

“And so the ones who come to know me simply let it rest,
an understanding freed from nouns embedded in the breast.”

The Concrete God threw up his hands, “This makes no sense at all—
to be an entity that’s known but none can ever call.”

“Indeed,” the Abstract God agreed, “for reason cannot name
a thing beyond the reach of thought to give it form and frame.”

“Alright,” the Concrete God again, “but surely there are those
who bind their understanding to a name they can depose.”

“There are, my Friend,” the Abstract God said gently. “But, you see,
this is precisely just the way it is you came to be.”

Posted on April 6, 2021April 1, 2023 by EAT

Specter

I’ve been seeing a therapist off and on over the past couple of years. My goal was to try to make sense of an unnamed trauma that has had a powerful influence on my state of mind and emotion for as far back as I can remember.

The work we did was forensic in nature, looking at what I do know and can remember of my life through the lens of various schools of psychology. It was attachment theory that led somewhere, as this revealed that I likely suffered extreme neglect during my first 3 years of life. I’m unable to verify this, however, because family who still live exist in a state of perpetual attempts to gaslight and deny.

Specter

She made me …
from filaments of stardust
mixed with the loess
of broken dreams

She bore me …
stark into the light of rage
and left me naked, crying
deep in an empty well

She gave me …
poison fruit from a withered tree
and i ate, having lost all hope
of anything more

She made me …
the imago of her darkest dread
an ever present specter looming
deep within her afterthought

Posted on June 24, 2020August 30, 2023 by EAT

The Outline

Since the mid 2000s, I’ve more or less tried to avoid using poetry to process traumas and strong emotions. This decision was inspired by a friend and mentor who expressed open disdain for such poetry. I suppose, since I was still working through issues of neglect and abandonment from my childhood, I hoped this would his win his approval. But that’s another story.

I think that—slowly, dimly—I’m beginning to realize that for me using poetry to process personal traumas, experiences, and strong emotions is not only essential to my process of working through the deep stuff and eventually moving forward, but to my overall inspiration to produce new material. Now, where I’ve actively tried to resist urges to use poetry to process my traumas, I’m working to move in the other direction.

The Outline

All around
a storm.

Clouds
swirling.

Winds
howling.

Leaves
blowing.

Walls
creaking.

Through the window
deep in the turbid havoc
distorted by patterns of rain
and side-blown rivulets

a thing moves massive
amid black coiling clouds
outlined only in part
by flashes of light

and thunder.

And there it is
the Monster
outlined in grainy gritty
shades of gray.

The doctor points
talks of radiation
chemo and surgeries…
I blink back fears

and struggle with all
my might to see
beyond reverberating peals
of terror and loss.

Of course, the storm is a metaphor for the emotional chaos stirred up by the diagnosis of cancer in a loved one. The outline in the storm adumbrated by flashes of light is metaphor for the image of the mass itself produced by scans—which basically use various kinds of flashes of light to produce the image, from X-rays to electromagnetism.

It’s been about two and a half years now since sitting in doctor’s offices with my wife going over scans and asking questions between long, strained attempts to breathe. And although my wife has been in remission for a couple of years at this point, I think it’s safe to say that I’m still traumatized by the experience of it all, hence this little bit of psychotherapeutic personal poetic trauma processing.

Posted on February 29, 2020August 30, 2023 by EAT

Event Horizon

I am hoping to get back into the swing of things when it comes to producing poems. For now I’m setting myself the goal of writing and posting one poem each month. If I can manage this, then I’ll look at stepping it up from there.

As I try to return to the habit of writing, I find that most of what occupies my creative thoughts is the experience of dealing with my wife’s cancer. As of now, she’s been in remission for two years—a miracle in itself to be sure. But no matter how long we both may live, I’ll never forget the experience of being caught within the gravity well of that singular tumor and forcing ourselves to go about each day within its event horizon.

Event Horizon

Despite the aching crawl of time,
I wake each day
from fitful sleep,
stumble to the car,
and drive to work.

Despite the crushing pressure
of uncertainty,
we take our son to preschool,
to the park to play,
and ready him for bed.

Despite the all-consuming darkness
that haunts every thought,
we buy groceries,
prepare our meals,
and pay the bills.

The diagnosis was unexpected—
I suppose it always is.
In but a moment, all
forward momentum was lost
and we found ourselves
locked in the fathomless
grip of a tumor.

And yet despite
the overwhelming gravity,
we continue on and
go about our lives
just inside the event horizon
of oblivion.

Posted on October 30, 2019February 21, 2020 by EAT

Greensleeves (a retelling)

One of my all time favorite melodies is “Greensleeves”, especially the chorus. Yet I’ve always found it difficult to fully enjoy because the lyrics are so incredibly chauvinistic. The song is basically about a man feeling “cast off” by his love interest after showering her with gifts, attention, and the promise of status—implying in no uncertain terms that she’s a soulless bitch for having a mind and a heart of her own.

Even so, I’ve found myself singing the first few verses over and over again all my life. But something happened a few years back; I began to experiment with alternative lyrics as I sang. This eventually inspired me to go all out revising this song about personal rejection into a tragic lament about lost love:

Greensleeves

Alas, my Dear, you are dead and gone,
your spirit cast on the starry sea.
And I have loved you oh so long,
delighting in your company.