07 February 2014

Attempt at profound thoughts


I've never been a particularly good writer. If you read my blog, you have seen evidence of that.
But OKC Dad is an incredible writer (don't know who OKC Dad is? Follow me on Twitter...and perhaps I'll write a post about it soon!) and has forced me to up the ante a bit.
Last week during our email exchanges (when he was just OKC Guy, before becoming OKC Dad), he sent me the poem The Shoelace by Charles Bukowski.
I read it, thought about it, forgot about it.
Last night, when we couldn't chat and I was feeling down that he had had to cancel our first meeting due to illness, I was rereading our emails (my inner psycho showing yet?). I stumbled across the poem and looked at it again. Bukowski's choices of examples of the mundane that can wear us down were striking this second time around. So I wondered what my version of this poem would look like, and how I would punctuate it.
I went to bed, turned out the light, and then about 15 minutes turned it back on. I wrote two poems. Maybe I'll write more. And I'm pairing them with two of my favorite pieces of art.

Magritte's Empire of Light, 1950 
There's a light
It's not a manmade light.
It doesn't come from a lamp or a lighter
or a television
It's not a streetlight

though sometimes it appears as one,
as you drive by in the dusk, startled
by the sudden illuminating inaudible pop.
It's not a natural light.
It's not the softness from a sunrise
on an early morning drive.
It's not a full moon,
glistening against the snow on the ground.
It's not the intense crack of a lightening bolt
jarring the summer night sky.
No, this is a light from within.
It's faint
and you wonder if you actually see it.
You squint, do your eyes play
tricks on you?
It's real.
Go find it, make it glow brighter, before
it's too late.
But it is. It's too late.

******
Giacometti, Walking Man, 1960

Awake, my soul.
There's something to hold
on to.
You just don't know what
it is yet.
Don't go searching, you
won't find it.
It's like love, when you
want it, it doesn't
come.
You can tell yourself
a thousand times you're
not looking for love,
it's like watching a horror movie,
filtering the view through fingers
spread across your eyes.
You still see it.
You're still looking.
Stop.
Awake, my soul.


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