Before I get into today’s entry, I felt the need to post this link. See, yesterday I was solicited by a local designer to quickly write up some copy for an ad he was working on. Seeing as how it was a rush job, I opted to do some online research to determine what I should charge. Google spit out the link above. Now, let me be clear in saying the irony in POWERwriting.com’s ad is both hysterical and disturbing. Still not sure what I’m referring to? Check out their very first sentence of copy, beginning with the word “Let’s.” Thanks, POWERwriting.com. I’ll be sure to refer back to you anytime I need some tips on what not to do in copywriting.
Now, then, let’s get to today’s poem. Back in December when I posted “This Dance,” I pointed out that I’m not much for love poems. Not that I don’t enjoy them, mind you; rather, I simply don’t write too many of them. Well, this morning I’m particularly saddened by distance in the literal sense. It’s a weird thing, really, to feel so connected to someone emotionally and yet so removed physically. In a way, it’s beautiful and in itself poetic. Sure, it’s cliche, but the idea, say, that two people can be thousands of miles apart and yet stare at the same sun or moon is, well, romantic. We share these things constantly, and I don’t mean to rouse some sort of latent Sedonah-esque crystal hippie; rather, I’m merely pointing out that we are closer to those we love than we often imagine.
I wrote this poem when I was struggling. I was blocked as a writer, and blocked in life in general. Is it my favorite poem? No, not a chance. In fact, there’s a great deal I dislike about it. Still, there’s something about the ending I find appealing. Now, if I only I could get the opening squared away…
At Dusk, Two Suns
I wish I could say
you made me write again,
that I’d forgotten English altogether,
and thanks to you these letters
are words, these words something more
than glyphs. I wish I could say
you put this pen in hand
and dragged it across the page
like a crippled, atrophied limb.
I wish I could say
you kept me from myself
when I needed to be kept,
needed space from all things me
so that I might eke out
above the dank, laundry-strewn
floorboards and unmade bed,
lathered up my long, bristled face
and found myself beneath it.
I wish I could say it was you
who could say my name, wake me
from whatever dream
I must be dreaming,
and set me, like a dilapidated ship,
back to sea, to the rippling
expanse of blue-green water
mirroring the sun at dusk,
sinking into itself like two blazing,
perfect circles slowly closing in,
preparing to envelop each other
and disappear completely:
two lava-hot beads
and devouring each other
so that there is nothing left
but night and starlight and me,
floating, not aimlessly, to you.