Concrete.

I get that feeling
that concrete provides
sometimes:
cold
indifferent
hard
immovable.
I get the feeling
that the world is concrete
and maybe I'd rather hide
in a narrow crawlspace
than pound up against that
cold
indifferent
hard
immovable
stone wall.

Miss Melancholy Melody.

It's two in the morning
I'm listening to music
missing you

Melancholy Melody
pounding through my bones
in my ears
in my heart
my heart keeps still
as she wraps cool fingers
around me

Melancholy Melody
won't you
rock me to sleep
won't you
stay by my side
till I draw my last breath
and open my eyes
in blinding white

Melancholy Melody
nothing feels
the way this does
this building tension
pulled taut
contrained
wrists bound
and then ropes broken
release

Melancholy Melody
come back to bed
let me coo you to sleep
let me keep scrawling nothings
into your consonant notes
smashing into cadence
where there is none
come keep me company
my sweet sweet

Melancholy Melody.

- - -

I wrote this a few days ago. It was very late and I was listening to music, and it was so sad and so beautiful. I just started scribbling as I listened. This is barely edited; just the poem I originally wrote. It felt so good raw, that I didn't want to go back and clean it up. It's also loooong. The longest poem I've ever written probably.

Close To The Finish.

So close
to the surface
so close to breath
but my lungs
collapse
under all the pressure.
So close
I'm flailing
sinking
spluttering
I don't know
how much longer
I'll be in limbo.

- - -

It has been far too long. I've been yearning to write something free of form, free of rules, all my own. University writing is so dry. And it's draining having to think in terms of citations and word count. Thank goodness the semester is coming to a close. I'm almost to the finish line, but I'm out of breath. I hope I've got just one more sprint in me.

I'm hoping to write a lot over Christmas break. I want to write and sleep and not worry about buss times, class times, or due dates. I don't want to think about tuition, outstanding library fees, or the cost of new school supplies. I think the break will be like the first bite of spring air in a world glazed with winter: Warm and invigorating.

Missing Fact, A Poem By Steven Heighton.

Sometimes time turns perfect rhyme to slant,
as in Wyatt’s famous sonnet - how the couplet
no longer chimes, his “ame” turned “am,” now coupled
more by pattern, form. So everything gets bent
and tuned by time’s tectonic slippage. You and
I, for instance, no longer click or chord
the sharp way we did, when secretly wired
two decades back (not fifty - but then human
prosody shifts faster); and surely that’s best -
half-rhyme better suits the human, and consonance,
not a flawless fit, is mostly what counts
over years. But, still, this urge (from the past?
our genes?) to shirk all, for one more perfect-
coupling rhyme: for two again as one pure fact.

-Steven Heighton, “Missing Fact,” The Address Book

- - -

This is one of my all time favorite poems, by one of my all time favorite poets. There's just something about this piece that makes me keep coming back to it. When I was first introduced to it (early last year), I felt it had a lot to do with relationships, and the way time tends to make us lose our focus. Things change, basically.

Recently I wrote a 1500 word paper on sexist and racist language for my Grammar/Composition class, and I stumbled across this little verse again. After having my brain all twisted up with sexism/racism, the poem had a slightly different edge: Not only does it speak about relationships, but also about things that are said, and how the meaning becomes dull and dusty as time goes on.

Anyways, just thought I'd share. Really, I think this poem is just a masterpiece, a whetstone for us all to sharpen our wit with.

Toil.

I toil for hours,
and find myself
taking small immeasurable steps.
I bang against a ceiling
reinforced with iron.
The bolts
don't come loose
easily.
And beyond this
is a brick wall to climb.

Eggs.

- - -

Isn't he just a darling? I love this picture so much: it commemorates a wonderful evening with three of the coolest people I know. It's times like these when I remember how much friends can keep you grounded.

Bus in October.

A dull roar.
Leaves on the curb
swirl twist and kiss--
they dance
on a chilled October day.
The bus presses on,
a dull roar spurring life
into dead yellow.

Jangling Dissonance.

My heart
is built
from the bottom up
with jangling dissonance.
I feel only
flowing harmony
when we are one.

StormBreak.

The sky is at it's clearest
after the storm.
You step outside
breath in crisp,
moist air,
and gaze upon
painted blue.
In a moment
you transcend small everyday life,
and see with utmost clarity
the blemishes of this world.

The Line.

Do you see the ocean
or the blue blue sky?
All I see
is a fine line
between the two,
a narrow path,
an acrobat's tight rope.
This is a fine line to walk.