The other day, someone commented on my wordpress account (where I keep my creative writing) and told me that I am too depressing. This comment caught me a bit by surprise, if only because in person I am a very cheerful, bright person. Reading back over some of the things I've written, I can understand where the confusion came in. So, I decided to write a blogpost in order to "explain myself." I don't want anyone worrying that I am too depressed or moments away from finding a ledge.
Over the course of my life, a lot of bad things have happened. I've got scars (mental, emotional, and physical) that will not go away until the Resurrection. But, those scars are a part of who I am, now. I have actually had psychologists tell me that someone with my baggage should not be able to function, that I should be mentally and emotionally crushed. The fact I get up out of bed every morning and can smile is a fantastic victory.
My secret is rather simple. I write the bad feelings out. When I am upset, I will put the emotion into a poem. When someone close to me passes away, I express my grief by writing. Any emotion that is too great for me to handle alone, I put into words. By doing this, I remove the pain and distance myself from it. Then, I can objectively look at it and overcome whatever the issue is. Yes, this means I end up with lots of painful nonfiction and poetry pieces. But, it does wonders for my psyche. I can usually tell you a) why I am upset, b) what combinations of feelings are causing problems, and c) how I intend to resolve the situation. In its way, writing has become my therapy.
I have never considered suicide. I have never cut myself or hurt myself to "cope" with mental anguish. I have a strong testimony that God lives and loves me. I have hope that tomorrow will be better than today.
I'm a totally different 1%.
Ironically, sometimes I write poetry that is very "depressing" when I am actually very happy. The result is a totally different kind of poem, but I don't think you would be able to tell the difference just looking at them. Here are two examples: one of them was written when I was very happy and one was written when I was very unhappy. Can you guess which is which?
Just Another Foot
I ripped out my heart
And buried it
Six feet deep,
But I can still feel you
Beat, beat, beating it.
You are my ghost:
The stain on the pages
Of my history,
The taint that bleeds
Through every line,
The story I
Will never tell.
I ripped out my heart
And buried it
Six feet deep,
But it wasn’t deep enough
To escape you
Beat, beat, beating it.
You are my demon:
The curse that haunts
My storm tossed sleep,
The shadow lurking
Over my left shoulder,
The pain of my
break, break, breaking heart.
How many feet does it take
To escape the taint,
The stain,
The bruise
Of you?
Pieces of me are
Flake, flake, flaking away
And soon nothing will be left.
Maybe if I rip out my heart,
Bury it just another foot
Deeper,
I won’t be able to feel
You beat, beat, beating
My heart.
Color: Me
I’m white
–skin the color of a fine piece of parchment.
The world tells me, orders me, to hate that
To hate myself.
All of the crimes of the past:
A skin color?
Nobody ever committed a gross injustice–
Unless they were white.
White. Caucasian. Trash?
I don’t believe it,
That I’m worthless because of my flesh.
Hate me for my mind,
Disregard me for the words that come out of my mouth,
Loathe me for the things I do–
But never judge me by my skin.
I am not a portrait of the past.
I am the present, the future, the inside–
Me.
--
At first glance, I probably seem like a very depressing writer. I just want to assure you that writing is just...a form of expressing. Sometimes it helps me heal my soul, and at others I just want to put interesting rhythms together. Thank you for the concern--it really does mean a lot that you would worry.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Poetry
It is rare that I really find poems that I like, but I thought I might share the ones I do enjoy with you. I've tried to keep it to the shorter poems, if only because posting all of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight would be a little ridiculous. But, these three poems bring me a little bit of happiness. Hopefully they brighten your day at least a little.
Outwitted
by Edwin Markham
He drew a circle that shut me out —
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
But Love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle that took him in.
---
The Highwayman
by Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.
He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--
His rapier hilt a-twinkle--
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter--
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."
She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.
Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight--
Her musket shattered the moonlight--
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.
He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
---
I find no more peace
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
I find no peace, and all my war is done.
I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice.
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I season.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not--yet can I scape no wise--
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain.
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.
I love another, and thus I hate myself.
I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain;
Likewise displeaseth me both life and death,
And my delight is causer of this strife.
Outwitted
by Edwin Markham
He drew a circle that shut me out —
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
But Love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle that took him in.
---
The Highwayman
by Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.
He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He'd a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle--
His rapier hilt a-twinkle--
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened--his face was white and peaked--
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter--
The landlord's black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o'er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
"Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."
She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.
Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight--
Her musket shattered the moonlight--
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.
He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still on a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy's ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter--
Bess, the landlord's daughter--
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
---
I find no more peace
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
I find no peace, and all my war is done.
I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice.
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I season.
That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not--yet can I scape no wise--
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
Without eyen I see, and without tongue I plain.
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health.
I love another, and thus I hate myself.
I feed me in sorrow and laugh in all my pain;
Likewise displeaseth me both life and death,
And my delight is causer of this strife.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Color: Me
Color: Me
I’m white
--skin the color of a fine piece of parchment.
The world tells me, orders me, to hate that
To hate myself.
All of the crimes of the past:
A skin color?
Nobody ever committed a gross injustice--
Unless they were white.
White. Caucasian. Trash?
I don’t believe it,
That I’m worthless because of my flesh.
Hate me for my mind,
Disregard me for the words that come out of my mouth,
Loathe me for the things I do--
But never judge me by my skin.
I am not a portrait of the past.
I am the present, the future, the inside--
Me.
I’m white
--skin the color of a fine piece of parchment.
The world tells me, orders me, to hate that
To hate myself.
All of the crimes of the past:
A skin color?
Nobody ever committed a gross injustice--
Unless they were white.
White. Caucasian. Trash?
I don’t believe it,
That I’m worthless because of my flesh.
Hate me for my mind,
Disregard me for the words that come out of my mouth,
Loathe me for the things I do--
But never judge me by my skin.
I am not a portrait of the past.
I am the present, the future, the inside--
Me.
Monday, January 4, 2010
To The Past
I feel tangled
When you look at me
Like my skin and my heart are
Trying to get away from me
I hate it
You have no place in my life,
No corner of my heart or
Window in my soul
To creep inside of
Just go away
The past is passed
And should stay that way
Why
Why are you trying to break my heart?
When you look at me
Like my skin and my heart are
Trying to get away from me
I hate it
You have no place in my life,
No corner of my heart or
Window in my soul
To creep inside of
Just go away
The past is passed
And should stay that way
Why
Why are you trying to break my heart?
Monday, November 24, 2008
Poem #2
A poem about what I don't like:
To My Friends
Every little look you gave me
with your plastic little smiles and glazed eyes:
I get it now.
You lied.
I told you not to do it, to not hide
what you thought and felt.
But you didn't bother to listen.
You still did it.
Manicured little dreams,
pretty realities that are so empty--
They're crumbling all around you.
I tried.
Now you wonder why every look
is suspect, scrutinized in expectation;
But you can't say I didn't warn you.
I told you so.
A poem about clothing:
My Battlefield
I can see it, from where I'm sitting on my bed:
A single lifeless mass of knitted cloth and soil that seems
determined to crawl onto my side of the room.
I snarl at it, thinking to banish it with a thought,
But it remains, gloating in its filth as it toes the boundary.
Stupid sock.
To My Friends
Every little look you gave me
with your plastic little smiles and glazed eyes:
I get it now.
You lied.
I told you not to do it, to not hide
what you thought and felt.
But you didn't bother to listen.
You still did it.
Manicured little dreams,
pretty realities that are so empty--
They're crumbling all around you.
I tried.
Now you wonder why every look
is suspect, scrutinized in expectation;
But you can't say I didn't warn you.
I told you so.
A poem about clothing:
My Battlefield
I can see it, from where I'm sitting on my bed:
A single lifeless mass of knitted cloth and soil that seems
determined to crawl onto my side of the room.
I snarl at it, thinking to banish it with a thought,
But it remains, gloating in its filth as it toes the boundary.
Stupid sock.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Poem #1
Unwritten
The words spill down the page
Stark and curled
On the lined surface of the paper
Meaning. Meaningless.
Words.
Let Me Fall
Words imposed on music
A tuned thought
Heart crescendos with each beat
Breath catches
The soul falls into the rhythm and
Perfection is found
The words spill down the page
Stark and curled
On the lined surface of the paper
Meaning. Meaningless.
Words.
Let Me Fall
Words imposed on music
A tuned thought
Heart crescendos with each beat
Breath catches
The soul falls into the rhythm and
Perfection is found
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