young, angry and confused, i shat out a couple of poems
a saccharine love poem
and a sickening social commentary
i sent them off
and won myself a place on writing retreat
where i sat and listened to lots of poems about
the dissolution of middle age relationships
i rolled my eyes and said to myself
i’m tired of this same poem
they are all attempting to write
over
and
over
some years later
i found myself trying to write the same poem
over
and
over
not about the dissolution of a middle age relationship
about an open door
and a february sea breeze
blowing off the bristol channel
through an open door into a cold living room
in an era gone by i would have had a bedroom full of crumpled pages
pulled out of the typewriter in disgust
but still demanding accountability
today i have a delete key
and several files hidden away deep in the belly of this machine, containing nauseating versions of this poem
i constantly question my motivation for writing it
i rescind my criticisms of the middle age poets
what’s the harm in them writing for personal therapy?
and what makes mine any different?
if not for therapy then perhaps a celebration of sadness
like
keats’ Ode To Melancholy
or
neruda’s Give Me Your Slow Blood
but is it right
to cash in on
a white corpse
saturated with alcohol
valium
heroin
that belonged to an older brother i barely knew
to demand my sympathy allowance
the collapse of his internal organs
opened many doors for our family
and myself
but no amount of shit poetry
will ever fully help me work out
which ones are ok to walk through.
[Delete]
