3.26.2009

"Fire/Frustration"

Why can't I write
like I feel?

Damn.
I thought I was better
the letters don't flow
It's my fault.

Why can't I have
more discipline?

Beat, beat
beat myself up
all the time

I'd better go easy.

Frustration.
That's the word
curdled and burned,
a wreck, technically.

A slob.
Can't be bothered for
rhyme and meter,
consonance is the best I can manage
in this vers libre.

I'm sick of it.
I should quit.

But I can't stop
spewing on the page
Jesus, it's not like I'm
some sort of tortured artist

muse burning a hole in my pocket.

God.

Does everyone do this?

The doubt.
Will it last forever?
Never. It comes and goes
coming up roses
pricking my calloused fingers.

Well, that was cathartic.
The least I can do for you
is to cut off this self-referential bullsh*t before it becomes ridiculous.

Here's something new,
a poem within a poem:

"Negeb"

The ocean breathes so openly
the sand beneath my skin.
I walk across the desert
seeking somewhere to begin.

A seagull floats above me
with its polished charcoal eyes
it followed me, an omen
in an animal disguise.

Kicking up the dust, it clears
so that I can see the stars
I freeze, held by the stare
of the sharp crimson eye of mars.

I close my eyes. God, guide me
back to safety, teach me trust
the darkness closes in on me
step slowly in the dust.

I stop. I am surrounded
by an ever-growing light.
"Son, do not be so foolish;
this is why I gave you sight."

A cascade of manic energy
the rise, the fall, the crash
neurons fire, sweet desire,
rage like hot volcanic ash.

Will they ever understand?
How can I show them, make them see?
That truly being a Messiah
is our responsibility.

"In time, son. Go to sleep.
remember this: to Love and Be."
alone, I head for home, now
Israel lives inside of me.


I hope you liked my poem. I can only write what I know.
Or don't know. Whatever.

I think I'll stop wasting your time.
Think on it.
I would be consistently melodramatic if I said
that I can't rest until I've told everyone.

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3 Comments:

Blogger DrNI said...

You can't write like you feel because there are no words to express feelings, just (verbal) images.

5:12 PM  
Blogger Fadookie said...

Hi Niels, long time no talk! Thanks for the comment... I guess you're right. I certainly can see in my own writing that it is much more potent when I use imagery and artistry to express an emotion rather than just a lot of words like a free-write.

3:25 AM  
Blogger Fadookie said...

I wanted to share some feedback I got from Dr. Sarah Moskovitz on these poems.

"In the first poem you have relayed your self doubt and frustration and used it to make poetry.. And you are impatient with yourself that what comes out isn't as good as you wanted it to be. Well in my experience it is true that most often first, second and more drafts often don't convey the full intent of what I wanted to do, so that's just part of the work process. But the first draft at least gives you something good to work with..and being over critical about what you are doing stands in your own way..so be careful of that. I like your metaphor of the roses coming up and pricking. You are definitely a poet on the way."

Nota Bene: "coming up roses/pricking my calloused fingers" comes from the rather mundane fact that I have been getting callouses from practicing 'Coming up roses' by Elliott Smith on my guitar, but it kind of rolled off my tongue (pen?) as I was writing, and I thought it made nice imagery.

"Negev is a beautiful and fully realized poem in which you have used sand, water stars to take us with you into the land to "Love and Be". The specificity of your images, the charcoal polished eyes of the bird and the crimson eye of Mars are very sharp and memorable and the lesson you are teaching of responsability to bring miracles is very moving. Beautiful work Eliot."

Nota Bene: "Negeb" is actually a poem within the poem "Fire/Frustration" but I think it stands on its own; the reverse is not true.

Dr. Moskovitz is a psychologist who gave a guest lecture for my Holocaust History class. Through our examination of Ruth Kluger's memoir Still Alive, we found we shared a common love of poetry and agreed to send each other some of our work.

3:40 AM  

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