at the stretches / vast edges of the universe touching blurry cusps of existence life wriggles from behind a telescope and sits down at the desk to write. in this moment evidence of a beauty (who has gone away.) bending with the curve of time. the secrets of the moon.
look at the sky a web of stars without lines, a game of connect the dots drawn in invisible ink escaping with the moon maybe if we were close enough you could drag your finger through the constellations and feel each thread, strum a song and call it god; weave a patch in the fabric of existence or spin heaven into a spool and save it for a time at sea, letting it out at the quiet of night (or make a home in a corner of the room at the light of morning) hang tiny beads of dew like drops of honey... and sail on, unfold into a map a cornered box of a sphere, the opened gift of raven's chest float atop the sea of stories and creation.
Maybe it’s my own hang-up, but I haven’t played a live show for half a year. The buzzing world of a musician appears to constantly take the form of a life forever on the go. And maybe that scares me.
There’s a critic with my voice that lives in my head and he constantly reminds me how doubtful he is that I can make a career out of this thing called music. He lobbies evidence that my best moments are always in my bedroom, unrecorded and raw. And when I sit down to put pen to paper and write lines to a song, he so sourly grins as I forget just what I sang.
This world craves the musician who can stand boldly and authentically, delivering the gratification to those in sorrow. Or maybe it’s all in my head. But when I think about it on a day like today, the time away from the stage just seems to grow. A passion for playing music and singing from my heart seems to be overshadowed by the upkeep of daily practice. A fire that once sustained me, at times, now has me working to sustain it.
My vision of a “successful” artist is so warped. I sit down with a feeling that I want to translate into chords and then suddenly I’m contemplating having to deal with fame. No one who understands fame wishes it upon themself. And so I put my future on hold for another ten minutes, distracting myself with video games.
Inner turmoil has a funny way of manifesting. A loss of focus, absenteeism, an out-of-character outburst…all of these are simply cries for help. And I’m not really that twisted inside. I can sit in one spot and meditate; I come to class; I don’t even punch my pillow anymore. But sometimes, especially in winter, there is this apathy that I like to imagine is death’s silent hand in the balance of life. A moment of freefall over the crest of a hill in a car, about to hit ground. An animal at its end, accepts fate’s nudge.
There is a wish I have, to rise from my shell and slip away from my crumpled body; fly into the dark wintry night. Free from the burdens of flesh, the necessities and troubles of life. And into the cold, sit forever in the snow counting the stars.
how do you write your poetry
do you dig inside of you and find
that darkness waiting, gasping to see air
carve a hole, an escape hatch, pave a long smooth tunnel
from your darkest centre to expose one by one the beams of daylight?
do you trace the red drip dripping footstepps, fresh
with deathsmell –no that is still a living scent, (but barely)
stalk the wounded mystical beast to exhausted ends:
do you make art with her bones? waste nothing of this body
and give your eyes the colours of each thread, hair,
shape and paint yourself in the rituals of an ancient nature.
is your art a gift of beauty to this world who
speaks out hatred, anger, tears or is your art
the mine of a wordsmith treasure boxed in traditions
no longer here, wearing away in the parched paper of books
centuries closed. do you create your art amongst a flowing
river put together broken ends and means and beginnings to
stay afloat and when drifted into the calm ocean look down into the
crystal blue lens all combinations of colour and creed or
do you dive into it, the great deep majestic, and
look around amazingly, sink slowly to the bottom.
They say love is a construction. They say love is an addiction, a chemical formula that our bodies manufacture. They say love is an illusion that your fools your brain. But we know to not believe everything we’re told.
Love is a creation. Love is what stays with us after the sun goes down, and remains before the sun goes up. Love grows and lives just like you or me, it grows in you and me. Love does not exist because chemical A releases into organ B, organ B and chemical A exist because Love exists. Love is a place and and a birth. “Hope is a beginning, but love is forever.”
Some of us live and grow in love so much that we need to bring another into this world to share it.