Emotions spill out of me
Faster
And with more
Force
Than I can handle
Anger, to the point
Of silence
Then an overwhelming
Joy at some
Moment which I don’t remember
And that begets such a
Sense of sadness
And despair
I am stuck here for a minute
In despair:
It has a way of doing that, doesn’t it?
But then gratefulness for some
Random kindness suddenly remembered
And just as soon forgotten as I
Am overtaken by rage
Shaking, blinded,
Angry stabs at the paper
(but strangely the words come easier now;
Rage the most powerful
Of all inspirations)
And exhaustion
Exhaustion
But not sleepiness ,
The current keeps flowing,
Restfulness, agitation,
As awkward moments,
Embarrassing gaffes are
Relived
Regretted
These, too, find their way
Into my poemCopyright © 2007
I watched a woman
In the store
The other day
She was touching
The fabrics
Of the clothing
Her fingers skimmed down
A beautiful turquoise silk dress,
Lightly trailing along its softness,
Relishing the vanity of it,
Her eyes closed for a
Moment as the silk
Slid along her palm;
She paused, and her eyes caught
A velvet coat, purple, with satin trim
She let her hand rest
In its luxuriousness
A full minute, fingers
Sinking into the purple fabric
As if nesting, relaxed, warm.
Her hands found texture
Worth relishing
Even a simple cotton shirt,
Holding it, almost tightly,
In her fist, perhaps
Finding strength
In the cotton’s sturdy nature;
A lace scarf delighted her,
Tracing its intricate design
Slowly with her index finger,
The gracefulness of the lace
Echoed in her soft movement.
She turned
And walked out
Without purchasing a thing.
I was left with the feeling
That she went home with
More than any of us,
Though, who never bothered
To feel the fabric with anything
More than our skin.Copyright © 2007
Who am I?
I am a woman, of that I am certain.
Beyond that, though, the definition gets hazier. And as that haze thickens, so does my sense of self-value, of purpose, of direction.
I work within corporate America, but I am not a professional. I am a wife, but not a subordinate. I am the one who cleans the house and prepares the meals, but I am not a homemaker. I have no children, so, no, I am not a mother. I love to sing, but badly and off-key. I am not a singer. I spend inordinate amounts of time in my car, but I am not a driver. I hate people, so I am not a socialite. I drink, but modestly, and I am not an alcoholic. I complain and criticize, but I am hardly a worthy critic. I love a good argument, but stumble on my words; I am not a debater. Rage empowers me, but I am not a fighter. Color, shape, movement captivate me, but I am not an artist. Music haunts me, but I am no musician. I am not poor, but far from wealthy. I am the nebulous middle class (in and of itself defiant of definition). I am patriotic, but I’m not a fanatic. I cringe at intolerance, but equally so at political correctiveness. I am 29, hardly a 20-something but not yet a 30-something. Am I my parent’s daughter? My brothers’ sister? My lover’s wife?
Am I a writer?
This, this eats at me. Today I feel shriveled, a shrunken, ill-fitting shadow of a former, eloquent self. Of all the uncertainties I contend with, I always had words. With ease, I could wrap myself in their power, their definitiveness, their cathartic nature. But now that question hangs in the air, oppressive, engulfing. Am I a writer?
And if not, who am I?
I was introduced to the most phenomenal band a few weeks back. Watching them perform, I felt in the presence of a power I had never experienced. They weren’t performing the music, they were the music. Their songs had no words, and did not need them. Beauty, sadness, loneliness, redemption, realization, pain…their songs were laced with emotion, not one note played that did not bore directly into my soul. I thought, as I sat in the theatre, “These guys are defined by their music.” Who are they? They are that power. They are that emotion. They are those feelings that each song urges the listener to share. They embraced creativity so completely that it enveloped them: they and their music were indistinguishable, the music, the symphonic interpretation of the human who created it. The magnitude of this thought has not left me, even as I write this weeks later. Why? Because their definition of who they are is so real, so substantial, that I will never forget it.
Particularly since I haven’t even figured out my own definition yet.
I yearn for that so much it hurts.
I want my definition to be real. To be substantial. To be me. Who am I? Am I me? Or am I some interpretation of myself, someone I’ve created to fill in for me? Am I a variation on a theme? Or the prelude? I pray I am not the refrain; this is not a self I care to repeat. I feel too nebulous. Too in-between. I feel like I am staring at the door marked “Me” yet my hand stays frozen at my side. Perhaps I’ve grown too comfortable in this caricature I allowed life to draw. Perhaps fear is what keeps me from opening the door. Fear that I won’t like the definition. Fear that maybe I won’t ever be defined. Fear that I will fail at the one thing I’ve always assumed would one day define me. Fear that if I do, there won’t be another door marked, “Me”. Copyright © 2007
