But when I lean over the chasm of myself / it seems / my God is dark / and like a web. –Rilke
I wrote for a couple hours tonight and everything was off. The characters were there, but bits of Picassos laughing and refusing to get in place. Not in the cool, abstract way. In the sloppy, we need structure and form, way.
Writing is a marriage and takes work. Some days we fail in beauty. But at least we attempted a mess.
I have a good friend. I imagine he walks by my window as a lantern and hides behind hedges so as not to wake me. But often, he gives his words and kindly leads me to wandering down a path I wouldn’t usually take with my thought.
If I could write him a poem it would be about a great chasm in the middle of the sea that is sad it has caused a tidal wave and even more upset it will never be filled with coral. And I’d take the coral from my own mind and speak it into the chasm like sailors, asking for shore.
When your heart breaks for a distance, it seems you may never experience a closeness. But just around the corner, a listening ear. And the one who wasn’t brave enough to love is pressing a nose against a glass and weeping.
Somehow, poetry is all of these things.
And I am very much alone with the Dark and my mirrored self, unspeaking.