Why do we wait a whole year to make resolutions when we can work on then now?
Are we scared and thus want to procrastinate them somehow?
Why is it that when we're kids we're scared of monsters under the bed
And when we grow older we aren't scared because we realize the monsters are in our head
Why is it that we are scared of the dark whereas it holds the same things when it's light
Is it because we're scared we might do something wrong because we are out of sight?
Why is it that when we see a disheveled man wearing rags we're afraid he might steal
Whereas nowadays smart men behind a huge desk are way better at this deal
Why is it that we ask so many questions but have so many unanswered
Is it because we're scared of the truth that will come out if they're answered?
It started at the beginning of adulthood
where the wandering into the new house
became a chore. The doorway greeted me
by snagging my woollen jumper.
The motorway was screaming, the battered gate happily hanging from its hinges.
His image first flashed into my sight,
And when I stared through the fogged up windows
I could still figure out his figure.
Loutish, he sauntered past
On a hillside, desolate.
He didn’t move for three hours.
He was most probably entwining the thorns from the bush
into his complex mind. Maybe
the boy with the thorn in his side
Had been brought to life by this mystery animal
With a mass of unkempt mane.
Unruly, unnecessary, untouched.
The notebook on my kitchen table lay untidily
waiting to be roughened up. I picked it up
and cast light over the paper.
I imagined him doing the same
But his art was thunderstorms
And mine merely a drizzle of rain.
I made progress
and the flowers were growing from my fountain pen.
Confidence developing, I invited him inside
And there were still no words from his unfathomable jaw.
A month later, we became one
and I still didn’t know where his intentions were lying.
I’m a girl afraid, does he even have any?
Ink pot after ink pot
I ran even further in this marathon of confusion.
I slowly slid from his dismissive grasp, his matted paws light
I had drawn graffiti over his portrait.
a permanent marker changed beauty into art.
I crept before his wake, into his sleep
And his lyricism lay imbibed in the walls, the desk, the door.
I felt the gale force energy cry inside
Which erupted like a volcano, turning remnants into ashes.
Face down, mane rough, scars bright, fur singed
In the morning, I lifted his heavy paw away from me
And placed it peacefully beside him.
I based my poem upon my hero Morrissey (Duffy seems to write her poems about significant historical/well-known figures or fairytale characters) because him and the Smiths have kind of been a form of escape for me recently. I just thought it would be nice to write about him, even if it was harshly, but that is Duffy's predominant style.
I would be grateful if anyone could feedback to me regarding its quality and how I could possibly improve :-)
the weight of the days,
weeks, months, years,
and all i can see
is the tiresome monotony
sound, speak, repeat
click clack of the keyboard
strum of guitar
whir of the milk i steam
metal pitcher, pull the shot
biology, trigonometry, literature
then off to the real world
a piece of paper, i qualify
to live my life
work forty hours a week
just like before
but a desk,
papers, a phone number,
and pens with my name engraved...
i feel each of these days to come
and i don't want
any of them.
I have had it all wrong,
I wonder if my grandfather
thought that, when on a steamer
he arrived a dreamer
of moving west from Montreal
single trying to find a life, better,
opened and tasted peanut butter,
and never did ever eat that again,
I have had it wrong, all of it
He kept dreaming and trying,
took the train to the northern Alberta,
saw his dreams take shape as he built
homes for other dreamers,
he met his wife, but that is a poem for another story,
he was a pacifist, he did not support, killing another,
but he sure had a temper,
for a peaceful man, he decided to retire, and that
let him get old, I admired him for what he stood for and sit at
a desk he built with my dad.
I still have had it all wrong.
The desk is nothing special
other than the hands and
knowledge that built it
and something a father and a son
did together, one of the last things
of each other, that
would be remembered, they worked well with their hands.
Both men were dreamers.
My dad had his dreams, he mostly kept to himself,
but you just knew that they were to do with
things outside of the house.
Oh don't misunderstand, he loved working with wood,
he knew firearms, he recieved a Medal for Military Merit,
for dedication above and beyond what a militiaman was
to do, he wasn't a pacifist, in many ways he was different
from his dad and so many more he was exactly the same.
Shame, I have had it all wrong.
I was not an A student, but Gee, I tried hard,
my potential was palpable we just needed to resuscitate it from time to time,
I joined the CAF, married and had three who have amazed me,
with their strong beliefs, so different from one another, see?
I have worked twenty jobs and not one among them defined as a career...
oh and yes, I have spent time in an unemployment line.
I am not a carpenter, like the other two could, my grandfather as a career
my dad took it on as a hobby, I am a pacifist, yes, but don't push to hard,
I might write you into a poem...
I have written so many serious and sombre pieces,
There is already so much sadness in the world,
If planet Earth could cry a tear, standby with the tissue,
I deal with my stuff in words, I try not to hang onto them,
Rather free them like birds, Ravens and Crows with Hummingbirds and Eagles,
My soul is sore and
Animus would rather soar,
so I pour the toxins from my mind, my skin, from my day
you already know I am not perfect I sin, from my way of life,
so I pour the garbage I live and beauty as I see
it is around me for you all to read, shame on me
I have had it all wrong.
I don't have to get it right, I must write.
My countenance cannot convey
the pint-sized slasher, with a blood-spattered clown mask,
that is hanging-out in my head.
Setting booby traps in my path,
and whispering perversions from his crawl space cubbyholes
in the walls of my subconscious.
I understand misunderstood.
I once sustained myself on nitrous oxide.
We'd hide behind the furnace in the burn-room
cracking and filling balloons,
we were misunderstood, and we understood
the need to say what shouldn't be said.
Or, more like, say what must be said,
at a time when silence would be best.
That is what I love about you most,
you flow from the soul,
you grow in the tumultuous
and you have an imp on your shoulder too.
Licking your ear, and instigating wickedness.
I heard your imp sleeps peacefully now,
and I'm proud to say
mine has faded from green
back to brown.
I understand misunderstood.
I scream when I get discouraged, I have a semtex temper,
computer glitches make me want to punch the universe,
and I have ranted to myself at the top of my lungs,
over losing a file, and yet I can smile after being slapped,
and disarm with curled lips, raise sunken ships, and spout camouflaged quips,
designed to accrue subtle smiles from those who know me true,
ten minutes after smashing my monitor off the desk with my keyboard.
I understand misunderstood.
I know flip-flopping can be a religion,
so I always wear boots, unless I'm going swimming,
the only holiday I couldn't live without is thanksgiving.
I know a billion ways to break balls, and I bet on the underdog,
unless everyone else is doing it.
I'm in pain daily, I leave my TMJ untreated,
so that I always have a reminder that pain will not deter me.
I eat healthy food, because I like eating it,
I feel at home inside my fists, I make love with my roundhouse,
I thought I'd live alone till death, and never meet a mind my graymatter would matter to.
But now I know it's not true...
Because now, I've met you.
And you understand misunderstood.
Dear girl who works the security desk at my friend's dorm,
blonde hair or purple, you get me going
and I'm impatient
i don't go in for the dating game
so wouldya do me the service
me you and the blonde barista would be happy together
until death do us part
Think of me not as some maritime devotion,
born upon the salt, suspended in the air,
our friendship but a spit of land, a temporal
bank set upon its tidal death through erosion.
Tarry not on your scattered desk of grey matter.
The folded notes and pencil shavings you hoard,
in the sorry hope they’ll fall to a collage of memoirs
and make sense of all this, their endless chatter.
They talk in circles, double-dealing confidants,
so free of tongue, yet so confined in spirit.
In haste they claim unto you their longing
for the fame, the glamour of the on-screen debutants.
Still stubbornly, you cling to those memories anew.
A memory of a memory, a doctored past is
a game of whispers, to colour in the grey,
to fill beauty in the present, to set ourselves askew.
So you rest with sad grace, thinking on what’s gone.
You make a bed and twist in the sheets of old deceptions,
your pillow case of cigarette ash, wasted petals;
instead, old friend, here are my words to lay upon.
So think of me not as some wasted emotion,
born upon the haze, a clinch of jutting bones,
our friendship but a stretch of truth, a temporal
face set to fade, in all of life’s commotion.
I could say
that I'd be up late studying
I could say
that I couldn't sleep tonight
(just tonight, random sleeplessness)
I could say
that I got distracted
(by Wikipedia, the CDC, Edmodo)
I could say
that I fell asleep with the light on
(at my desk, with my book, and my laptop)
I could tell the truth
(that I don't sleep, that I hate sleeping, that if I sleep more than four hours it's as bad as pulling an all-nighter)
I could stay up by cellphone light
(so no one can see that I'm up)
psychology is my favorite class.
not because I love studying about what makes people tick,
but because I am the only sophomore.
and since I am the only sophomore,
no one talks to me.
so I sit in my desk,
uncomfortable as hell,
I listen to the gossip being told from ear to ear.
I listen to the lies being spread like wildfire.
I listen to the teacher telling the class to settle.
but most importantly,
I listen to the words in my head.
In yellow lamplight a boy is pulling a green knit sweater over
his head. It is winter, maybe late autumn. The branches are
bare and his room is cold. He is forcing his feet into a battered
pair of Converse with frayed dirty laces that he never unties.
On the stereo, Bob Dylan sings a song about a girl from Canada;
the boy, pushing his arms into the sleeves of a blue jacket far
too thin for the weather, dreams of the blondest girl he ever
knew and the way she waved goodbye. His footsteps echo
down the wooden staircase, follow him out the backdoor. The
cold stings his cheeks, makes itself tangible with each exhale,
his thighs turning pink through their layer of corduroy. With
his headphones on he doesn’t hear a sound, his pathway lit by
the lights from other houses. Television screens flickering in
the windows. The pond by the high school looks frozen over,
but he knows the layer is likely not thick enough to hold him.
He cuts across the dead of the Little League field, taking his
hand out of his pocket to run his fingers along the grooves of
the rusted out chain link fence. The weatherman has promised
snow, and the boy’s heart is bubbling with hope that the
schools will stay closed in the morning. He is thinking about
when he was little, digging out shelters in the snows banks
with his sister, and how in this tiny caverns he felt he could live
forever, anonymous and alone. He is thinking about what his
mother meant when she told him he was born old. A cat runs
down a driveway, a man walks his large black dog, a shivering
couple splits a cigarette on their front porch. The boys is
looking down the road, thinking about how no one is ever
there when you want them to be. He stops in front of her
house, jams his hands a little deeper into his pockets, looks up
at her bedroom. There she is, sitting at her desk, perfect
posture, reading from a hardback book with fairies dancing on
the cover. He pays attention to the hollow feeling of his chest,
hoping to excavate some kind of courage, some kind of
confirmation that fourteen years of life has amounted to this.
He imagines throwing a stone, but sighs instead, and turning
on his heels walks back home. Somewhere an airplane blinks
overhead, snowflakes making their first ominous descent into
the atmosphere. When he gets home the house is dark, his
parents gone to bed. In his room he empties his pocket of loose
change onto the top of his dresser, and sits down on his bed.
Hands clasped between his knees, he chews his lips, and takes
momentary joy at the feeling of sadness creeping into this