This got me thinking about poetry. I've written a lot of it-- even published some of it. Oh, and I won a contest for it many moons ago.
I've been writing my wife poems. I made a vow to her when we first became serious about our relationship: I would write her a poem for every season. By that count, we should be up to twelve poems. I don't think I've got them all. I think I still owe her two.
Anyway, I haven't written a whole lot of poetry in the last five years. I've gone through a couple periods where I was consistently crankin' them out, but work and life have been conspiring to keep me from penning at a satisfactory rate.
This bit on WFDD has got me thinking, though. And while I haven't been producing a lot of it, I still value it and hope to write-- and publish-- more of it in the future.
Having said that, I've decided to post one here. I may post more. This is one I wrote close to three years ago (the title is "Approaching Thirty" and I am now "Approaching Thirty-Three").
Approaching Thirty
I have no desire to recreate the past,
or invent the future.
The present is raw,
cut from mistakes and intuition--
apple seeds and bank statements.
This is where I live, happy for distraction--
books and song,
movies and roller coasters--
But these only mark the spaces between--
moments suspended in a network of thoughts
and associated feelings.
A picture that reminds me of past drunks.
A shirt that doesn’t fit like it used to.
A song that no longer brings me to tears.
A book half forgotten, quoted without passion.
But life is raw,
and continues to chafe, rub, and tickle.
Each successive avenue is brilliant
with simplicity.
And this is where I live,
amongst memories and currents
cool and new.
1 comment:
I don't have a really extensive technical vocabulary for criticizing poetry, so I'll leave it at this: I found this moving and familiar.
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