Writing poetry is like trying to diffuse a bomb, and you don't know which colored wire to cut first.

Here are a couple of poems of mine that are tentatively complete. Feel free to critique and/or suggest anything concerning them.

The Ritual

If she happened to be downstairs,
Her hands busy in work,
Toiling over crafts or turning the pages of a book,
And I happened to be upstairs,
With my hands busy in work,
Writing a poem or changing the channel,
My heart might begin to suddenly flutter with fear,
Believing we were not in the same house at all,
But that these two stories instead
Formed some kind of impassable and infinite wall.
Or, even worse, that each story concealed itself
To be a different state of mind
And I merely dreamt her into existence –
She - a shadow of my shadow,
Lost in the murky waters of dreams and time.

My only remedy would then be
To stop the wild beatings of my quaking heart,
To stop my heart altogether,
To stop the bell tolls from ringing their sad song -
And, like a ghost, slip downstairs unnoticed,
Searching with desperate eyes
For love to be found in a woman
Whose hands are busy in work.
And from afar I would determine myself
To only be made known to her, once again,
By planting on the top of her sweet-scented head
The most serene and gentle kiss my lips can create.
For a kiss is all I need to know she is alive.
Alive in me.

Then, for all I know, the house would not be two stories,
But one; and our hands could work together in love, as one.


Spitting Blood

The sky bleeds the color of a deep red plum,
And far below the dissolving azure,
With teeth rattled and loosened,
Spitting blood,
I stand.

Do you think the blood trickling down my chin
And dripping to the ground
Is going to stop me from feeling the grass
Beneath my bare feet? Or from knowing the cool caress
Of chilled water on my living lips?
No! I will take my fallen blood, mingle it with the dirt,
And use it to slick back my hair!

Do you think cracked teeth, broken like glass,
Are going to stop me from loving
The wings of a bird, the veins in a leaf,
The tantalizing taste of oranges,
The gentle kiss of a woman,
Or the beating of God’s heart
Pulsating through all living things?

I assure you,
Next time
You are going to have to hit me
Much harder.

Pablo Neruda

I think it would be best to begin sharing some of the poetry I have found to be powerful and compelling before I start sharing my own. I don't know why I think this would be best - perhaps I just don't have much confidence in my own ability to write. Anyway, the piece I have posted here comes from a man named, Pablo Neruda. Neruda was born in Parral, central Chile in 1907, and he lived until 1973. He is an internationally celebrated poet; and in 1971 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. 

Although I have been in possession of some of his work for years, I have only recently discovered a love for Neruda's poetry; his poetry is so rich in imagery, and he has a very unique and provocative way of glorifying the human experience. One feels how Neruda must have reveled and absorbed life around him through his poetry; and for the past three months or so, I have been absorbing him. I highly recommend him, and I hope you enjoy the poem I have selected to display. 

from Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair

XIV

Every day you play with the light of the universe. 

Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.

You are more than this white head that I hold tightly

as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.

Let me spread you out among yellow garlands. 

Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?

Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.

The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.

Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them. 

The rain takes off her clothes. 

The birds go by, fleeing.

The wind. The wind.

I can contend only against the power of men. 

The storm whirls dark leaves

and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky. 

You are here. Oh, you do not run away. 

You will answer me to the last cry.

Cling to me as though you were frightened.

Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,

and even your breasts smell of it.

While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies

I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, 

my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.

So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,

and over our heads the gray light unwinds in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you. 

A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.

I go so far as to think that you own the universe.

I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, 

dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

I want

to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. 

There must always be a beginning.

Hello, to whomever might read this (Did I use "whom" correctly? I've always wanted to be able to use that word properly but have always been a bit confused as to how it's done - I'm a sorry excuse for an English major.) Anyway, I will make this brief because I don't have much to say and I have things to do.  

Alright...Okay...Here I go...So whenever some kind of new web-community thing (I can't think of the technical term; but stuff like: xanga, myspace, facebook, this thing) pops up and becomes popular, I begin to feel this internal resistance to join. I don't know why - maybe it's because naturally I tend to be skeptical about things that sprout immediately and simultaneously in everyone's minds with so much popularity and praise; it's my pathetic ego doing its work, telling me I can't follow the crowd, that I have to be unique! Take for example, Swirl: I don't know how many people have told me their lives have been dramatically changed for the better ever since they've gone - a lot of people -the best frozen yogurt they say.  I listen to everyone's praise of the place and to their emphatic suggestions that I ought to go, but again I undoubtedly find that little voice of skepticism saying to me, "It can't be as good as they are saying. It just can't."  The irony is that it is probably as good as everyone makes it out to be, I'm just too dumb to actually go there and try. However, I suppose there is some legitimacy to it  - I mean, it's impossible to keep up and follow every trend, and, by any means, every trend is definitely not worth following. But there's more to it than that. Going back to web-spheres: the funny thing is I inevitably give in to these kind of trends, just like I will inevitably give in to Swirl, because when it comes down to it, I like frozen yogurt, and that's all that matters; and I suppose I like these things too, because I always end up making one.  I guess what I am trying to say is this: even though I am a natural skeptic, and I suppose a lot of people are, I'm not a fan of skepticism; it makes a rotten heart. And it robs you of so much joy. I think of "Lost", and "The Office", and "Harry Potter", and "Coldplay", and even Christianity - all these things, which at one point I was skeptical about, have brought me a tremendous amount of joy, especially Christianity. So when I go back to Riverside, I'm going to go to Swirl. 

So there it is. I don't know if each entry is supposed to have some kind of life-lesson integrated into it, but nonetheless, there is one: don't be too skeptical. Or better yet, don't be cynical; I suppose one needs to employ some kind of skepticism in order to stay healthy.

Well, that's all I have to say for now. I guess it wasn't as brief as I thought it would be. I plan on posting poems and the like on here for feedback. I'm working on a couple now; so there should be a new entry in the next couple of days or so, hopefully with a poem or two to share. 

Signing out, 

With Love and Peace,

john

Reading list:

Prince Caspian - C.S. Lewis

The Holiness of God - R.C. Sproul

The October Country - Ray Bradbury