It always surprises me the times that I’m listening to music and the lyrics fit my mood and the words that are swirling in my head. I have a tendency to throw them in to the subject line of my blog posts (see above), and this one is no different.
I’ve been writing a decent amount of poetry the last week or so. Most of it is in my head, and I can’t tell if any of it is good or if it’s just rubbish. I imagine it’s mainly the latter, as I don’t feel like I’ve produced anything with much merit in the last several years. Sad, but true.
My Uncle, who has been my writing mentor for many years, has always told me that as long as my writing means something to me, and I quote, “Fuck the rest of them.”
I love his advice and have always tried to follow it. There have been many times when I’ve stopped to consider what others would think of something that I’ve written, and I try to remind myself that it doesn’t matter. I should write for myself and nobody else, and if someone happens to like then, well, great. If not, fuck ’em.
In that respect, here’s some new writing. I’ve intermingled it with some old stuff that I found in some old archives. Comments are always welcome.
Beyond Bell Jars
Finding in between,
you taste just like
-yourself
poetic comparisons
make it easy to be faithless
or hopeless
and easier to ignore
For words, once masked
can fail the heart
and this, too, should be good
to open the glass
breathe into believing
beyond bell jars, poetry
and love
You
Intellectual Intercourse
I want to engage in intellectual intercourse
To drink deeply of experience
Sip slowly from the cup of wisdom
I want to meditate on the rain slapping the windowpane
Speak quietly to one another
At three a.m. in the soft glow of your green eyes
I want to discuss the meaning of all that exists
To gaze at the moon that sails by
Contemplate the equations of life
I want to toy with the fingers of the soul that drives you
Taste of a passion we both possess
Share a common spirituality
I want to engage in intellectual intercourse
Advice for a Poet
if you graphed out the relationship
a history of women
in my life
would precisely match
the volume of my poetic output
note the first poem
or more precisely
the please-take-me poem
which convinces her
that out of all the men
who admire her breasts
and her body
I alone come with rose in hand
then, periodically,
apologies, notes
pained verses, odes
and lists of reasons
to leave
then the high point on the graph
when, having discovered my faults or themselves
they leave me to write
flat on my back, ceiling for a page
full of take-me-back poems
I-hate-you poems
and poems about reasons
to go hitchhiking
peaks valley and all things decline
I learn to sleep less
think less, shave every three days
until the new checkout girl
gives me a reason to buy a razor
as for the long term prospect
if you had graphed it out
all things, they come to endings