Category Archives: Poetics

Hungry Spirals

I am, for the most part (and what a part to play), coasting through life.
It is like everyone is born with a boat, but, for some reason, unlike most, mine has no oars. Everyone else gets to push themselves down the stream of life in a direction of their choice, and I am just watching as the swirling eddies churn me up and spit me out in whatever direction chaos fancies.
Why else, in my quiet moments, do I feel compelled to draw endless spirals on paper?
My fingers and my brain call out for drainage. Gutters, drowning, rotating pools. Rain, bound for oblivion.
For now, the shrinking circles churn me up and spit me out, but one day, a giant, greedy current will catch me close and eat me up.
As they say, the centre of the vortex is calm and quiet. Perhaps, to be eaten, consumed by the storm of life is, at its end, blissful silence.
If not, who will give me my oars?
It is a question that fails immediately.
My oars are mine, and I must make them.
But how?

Growing A Cactus To Tend To My Heart

I’m growing a cactus to tend to my heart.

It’s prickly and stickly and squat and cute, a bit like me.

We’re going to grow together, with water and sunshine and songs about the sky.

My cactus and I.

They say plants are healing and I believe it.

I’ve seen it!

Nothing more peaceful than a prickly green thing.

I’ll watch it and care from a distance, maybe I’ll even sing.

My sharp arcadia.

My green maƱana.

My dewy paradise.

It’s a hot summer ahead, and we’ll do just fine.

 

 

The Office

Brrrring brrrring! Brrrring brrrring!

This person is filled with hot air.

He bristles and bustles and chokes down the wire.

He’s mad at something, but I struggle to care.

It’s just paint, it’s not worth this ire.

That person talks about what this person did.

They tell the whole office, as if lifting a filthy, secret lid.

‘They spoke to Sally like she was a kid’

The office is shocked and exquisitely livid.

Another found out they had heart disease.

They had just four more years to retire with ease.

She says to me, ‘I’ve a feeling I won’t make it’

She says to me, ‘I worked hard for this, but I might not make it’

She says to me, ‘I worked to spend my time with my husband, but now I might not get it’

I say, ‘You’ll make it, you’ll get it, I’m sure’

I think to myself, ‘I don’t know if she’ll make it. I don’t know if she’ll get it’

I think to myself,

‘That’s sad.

That’s harsh.

That’s mad.’

And I bottle it up and don’t say a word, as the world keeps on revolving, dark and absurd.

I won’t take it, but I’ll take it, because I need to work, to earn a living.

So I can live, and die without meaning.

I Have Many Fears, but All Pale to This One

I am a naturally pensive person.

I spend a lot of time ruminating on things.

They can be hopes and fears, dreams and nightmares.

I don’t know why I do it.

To live in the moment, to experience life as it comes, to be, rather than to be thinking about being. You might call this being a zombie, or a drone, or some such kind of non-sentient thing. Something devoid of its humanity. Devoid of its sharpness and its soul.

A fool? The one who does, but never thinks?

I’m starting to change my mind. Maybe I’m the fool.

We live once and die once. We get one life, one slip in time, one moment in infinity to just be who we are. And what does the clever man do? He sits and thinks and never does. While we regard the fool as the one who does without thinking.

What backwardness in the face of living this view is!

Their is some kind of unspoken wisdom, some prescient truth in doers that speaks to the meaning of life. It speaks to the joy of being in the moment, of not wasting time, of being present and connecting with people.

I am so tired of thinking and not doing. And the more I think, the less I do. And the less I do, the more I think about how much I ought to have done, and how much time I might have to do it with the limited beats, predetermined in my heart.

I have only one fear that means anything when the whole of life’s purpose is condensed into a single point and all trivia falls away. I have fear that I did not love enough and was not loved enough by others. I have fear that time will limit my ability to address it. I have fear that my overthinking life will tie me so in knots, that I never address my need for love and my need to give love.

I am 27 now. Life is moving so fast and I have never met someone who I could reveal my heart to and peer in at another’s lit up for me.

I fear that I am empty.

I fear that if someone peaked into my chest, they would find only dust and darkness. That I am incapable of being seen as someone, a person filled with kindness and purpose and love for others. I want to be that person, but I am so terrified that I am empty.

I cannot open up, for I fear what is inside.

So there you have it. Any fear I have in this life comes from this singular fear. That I am empty and will not love, like a dead thing, still breathing and thinking.

I am not scared of death. I am not scared of people. I am not scared of anything, truly, except being seen.

With agony,

J