Once upon time, I was a creative person. I wrote poems and songs and played music, but then something happened (don't ask me what, I don't know) and I got lost. In a moment of clarity I realized that my life had gone terribly off course. And sometimes I think you reach a point where you have to destroy everything in order to rebuild. And so I did. There's a Kate Bush song I'm relating to a lot right now, called Pull Out The Pin.
Anyway, during the course of my demolition, I came across some poetry I had written many, many years ago. During my lost years I couldn't even read poetry -- again, I don't know why - I would just have this visceral reaction to it, and it made me sick. Now that's changed and I'm writing again too. And I decided, perhaps against my better judgment, to post some of it here. First I'm starting out with the old stuff. By way of background, so that some of the poems make sense, when I was 20 years old I fell in love for the first time, so some of the poems are about that. I was also involved in a car accident with my college roomate and best friend. She died. I lived. I wrote many of these poems in the immediate aftermath of that. For me, dealing with the grief is still, more than 18 years later, a work in progress.
And so, with my silver Buddha, and my silver bullet, I'm pulling out the pin.
Author: Badkitty (gail, versions 20.0 through 22.0 and 39.0)
Distribution: Not without permission
Warnings: None... uhm, sometimes I curse. That's about it.
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A poem for you
I am thinking of myself sitting here
wondering where to start or how, just how
so I get up, get another Camel Light
(my room is a cloud and it's a clear night)
People who love me call them "cancersticks"
Fine, so I get up, dial your number and it's
busy again, so I go back to writing
Like a myopic dart player drunk in a bar,
blinking after the board, barely discernible
bullseye in and out of focus
You must realize I don't want to miss a single
detail which makes me afraid to be a player
I'm doing my best here trying to write this
it is for you anyway I light the damn butt,
return to my desk get up again and get out of
the house I need a walk
down College Ave past the buses and Brower
Commons and back up again, faster
I need my typewriter
And I'm still trying to figure out what
the hell I'm thinking I'm trying to write and I
stamp out the butt by the door, up the steps
and there you are and I stop and I realize that
Tonight you're looking more beautiful than
I've ever seen you
[hr]
Note: I just remembered that I wrote this poem (or tried to) in the style of Frank O'Hara's "The Day Lady Died." It's an amazing piece of work (his poem, I mean) and I'd be remiss if I didn't include a link to it here:
http://poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171368