anticipation/dread

anticipation/dread

 

is it more frightening that no one has ever fully known me,

or that I can never fully know another person?

 

is it more frightening that no one has ever fully known me,

or that no one has ever fully tried?

 

is it more frightening that no one has ever fully known me,

or that I don’t fully know myself?

 

is it more frightening or exciting?

 

bb

 

(Photos are from Cy Twombly’s Fifty Days at Iliam, currently at Philadelphia Museum of Art. Specifically from the painting, Achaeans in Battle.)

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light in another form

Oh hey, it’s been a minute

I forgot you for a minute

I didn’t forget you because of you

I forget because of me

Remembering you comes naturally

 

When I remember you I remember

Thinking about you existing

In the same world at the same time as me

It makes me feel the same things I feel

Leaving the house on a crisp morning in late October

Hearing the leaves crunch beneath my feet

Watching my breath in front of me

You’re the feeling of possibility

 

Thinking about you

Not that far from where I am now

Makes me feel the same things I feel

In the first few seconds of that song by The Cranberries

-the one from You’ve Got Mail

 

This feeling is nearing certainty

Are your lights on

Is your car running

Does your car have heat

Are you using it or are you still caught in that space between heat and air conditioning

Summer and fall

Possibility and uncertainty

 

Are you thinking about driving toward me

Or are you already doing it?

Rounding the corner onto my block

The streetlights illuminating the fear, the anticipation, the turmoil, the everything else trying to hide in the shadows covering your face

 

I know it’s late but that doesn’t mean something new can’t start right now

Morning isn’t the only time for things to begin

Some of my best beginnings have been soaked in October moonlight

 

I know you know some nights I can’t settle down

And I can’t go home

I know you know some nights I drive around listening to song after song after song

Looking for the right one to take me home

I do it with more than just songs

 

Drive toward me

I’m serious

I’ve been working on my certainty

Starting with being certain of you

 

Drive toward me

I’ll meet you where the streetlights fade into moon

Which one am I?

Which one are you?

 

Headlights fade into headlights

And I’m still not sure

awed

awed

 

I am in awe of You

Enthralled by You

Fascinated by You

Undeserving of a moment of You

 

Out of all the things You could’ve made –

You picked me to make?

You picked me to create?

You picked me.

 

You fashioned me, carefully

Every inch of the space inside my brain

You designed me, gracefully

Every bit of me pointing back to You

 

You took your time with me –

Making sure You added all the things I’d need

My intricacies, my eccentricities… my flaws, too

Can there be a flaw in a piece designed by You?

 

You hang onto my every word

But I should be hanging onto Yours

I spend days seeking the sound of You

Then I hear You whisper, “I want to know YOU more”

 

Your attention stuns me

“I am the artist and you are my magnum opus”

Your intention stuns me into silence

I am the artist, trying to capture a tiny inch of Your glory and reflect it onto my scraps of blood and bone and paper

 

I am in awe of You

I am in awe of every moment spent with You

In awe of the time and space You give me, selflessly

In awe of the notion that You are a little in awe of me too

Creative Block

This weekend has brought me my first creative block since I started writing poetry again.

The last few weeks I found myself waking up early because there were lines bouncing around in my head, or pulling over to the side of the road to jot something down on paper. My journals and my notes app are full of single lines that I’ll fit into a poem or right a poem around. Most of the poems I’ve been writing have been mostly automatic and fully emotional, although I’m learning the importance of going back and editing them a few days later. Time brings clarity.

If you’ve read any of my poems you can tell I’m not a big fan of cutesy rhyming or just rhyming for the hell of it. If I am going to rhyme it’s going to be for a reason. But I do want to challenge myself with more rhymes. I’m having fun with form and technique, too. What happens if I rhyme here but not here? What happens inside the reader if I make every stanza 3 lines except for this one? Poetry is fun became of all the subtle choices I get to make that can change the tone of the poem and what it means to someone else.

For the past couple weeks, I’d been finding it easy to write out the entirety of every poem I wrote in 10 minutes or so, as long as I had some starting point, feeling I wanted to encapsulate, or line I knew I wanted to start or end the poem.

Then, nothing. Inspiration dried up. I swear, this weekend, I wrote 20+ poems that are worthless and nothing and make you feel nothing except for maybe discomfort and the same 3 things over and over.

But I kept writing. And as much as I want to, I didn’t rip the last 20 pages out of my notebook. One thing I’ve learned over the years is NEVER throw out your writing. Keep it, even if it’s embarrassing. You might come back later and think “This is brilliant!” You might come back later and find a few key phrases or paragraphs to pull out and use for something better. You might come back later and find that it is still terrible, too. But then you can see how far your writing has come.

My biggest block with poetry is a lack of inspiration. In prose, my biggest block is time and avoidance and just refusing to sit down and actually write. When writing fiction, I don’t need to feel every word. So much of it is plot and dialogue, and the emotion is hidden in chapters on chapters on chapters. I don’t want my prose to be ALL emotion, because life isn’t all emotion. So much of life is finding our way to the things that make us feel.

My poetry is my feelings. It is an emotional experience to write it and, I hope, an emotional experience to read it, as well. Poetry and prose are different ballgames. Poetry has been a form of therapy for me, whereas prose tends to drain me, and even though I love it, it is work. My prose is direct and to the point (because Stephen King taught me) but in my poetry I can say whatever silly, overly romantic, overly adverb-y, overly dramatic thing I want.

I am learning more about myself through these poems. I’m also starting to suspect that I’m using poetry as a way to avoid writing fiction (my truest love). But I’ve decided that is okay. I’m giving myself grace this month to write whatever I please, as long as I’m writing. I’ll get back to a stricter writing schedule in October.

Also, this morning I wrote some poems that didn’t suck. Hopefully I’ll post some of them over the next few days. So here’s hoping the creative block is coming to an end.

Much love,

Carrie Sue

A poem I wrote on an airplane, August 22

My Brain

 

I am confident

In myself

In who I am

But I wonder

Is it real

Or manufactured in a lab inside my brain

How does it look to people outside the inside

 

I’m confident

I’m happy

Happy?

Yes, happy

I smile a lot

I talk too fast

Sometimes

I slur my words

They come too quick

I don’t have time to edit them

Sometimes

I laugh too loud

(Sometimes I laugh too much too)

Sometimes

I laugh instead of listening

Sometimes I laugh instead of slitting my heart open on the kitchen table

For you to clean up later

After

When I’m lying in the bed with my eyes closed and you think I’m asleep

Mom always said when I couldn’t sleep I should at least try to rest

Sometimes

I wonder

Am I too much?

Am I too loud too out there too different too just like every single other person too sure of myself do I smile too much do I check my hair in the mirror too much do I check my phone too much do I try to be unique to get attention or do I do it without even having to try does my laugh sound normal to you does it sound sincere

Too much too much too much

 

But then I remember I am not enough

How could I ever have thought I was too much

I wonder if I can even reach the edge of “enough” with the tip of my middle finger when I am standing on the tips of my toes

Am I too anxious to be seen too anxious to be understood and loved and touched and known too anxious to stay in one place for long enough too anxious period am I too numb to be seen am I too numb to care am I too tired too overwhelmed too sick to stand am I too blurry for you to see me or too blurry for me to see you am I even here

Not enough not enough not enough

 

I know I’m not the first one or the only one to feel this

But that doesn’t fix anything

It only brings me back to the question

Do the questions only matter because I’m not the only one to feel this way?

Is “different” a word I’ve labeled myself to make myself feel better in a world of same

Is it only how we see ourselves

But never how others see us?