Monday, September 26, 2005

Normally I wouldn't use this as a forum to post my poetry/writing--if I was interested in doing that I'd create another blog with a nice, clever, avant-garde title--but I'm kind of proud of this piece. It's a sestina and it took me a couple weeks to write, which is the longest I've ever spent on a poem. The way I see it, even if a sestina seems forced (which mines does, at least to me), it's a good writing exercise--a way of disciplining and organizing your thoughts that can lead to new forms of expression. This is also why I am a fan of rhyming poetry rather than free verse, although some free verse (especially that of ESM and COS) is just as powerful in both form and content as rhymed poetry.
Anyways, here it is. The title is tentative, pending a lawsuit from Clint Mansell.


Ghosts of Things to Come

The moon is cold, the wind is bright and clear,
I shiver, clutch my coat, and think of home--
But home - where's that? Is it the place I live?
Or where I've lived--my house of eighteen years?
For as I close the door, I greet the room
That holds me, but upon me has no hold.

These fragmentary thoughts are hard to hold
And in their scattered ramblings nothing's clear.
I lie, exhausted, in a foreign room
This transitory place that isn’t home.
For home has ceased to be these past three years
As in suspension I have come to live.

Yet there's a certain joy to know I live
This way; my future is my own to hold,
To mold and sculpt through all the passing years.
It would be nice if something here was clear,
And if I knew which place to call my home--
But for those luxuries, I've had no room.

And when I've moved to yet another room,
Another place to sleep and eat and live,
I'll let those things convince me it is home
A place that that lets me keep some kind of hold
On who I am--but even that's not clear
Since who I was has vanished with the years.

The days go by. And weeks. And months. And years.
My overbearing schedule leaves no room
For idle thoughts. The future seems quite clear:
I'll find a girl, a house where we can live,
A bed to share--a place where we can hold
Each other close. Yes, then I'll have a home.

And when I've found this imaginary home,
That dream that kept me sane throughout the years
Maybe then this doubt will lose its hold
On me, and calm contentment will find room
Inside my worried head and help me live
In quiet peace, with mind and conscience clear.

I'd like to think there's room to hold these hopes
Within me, and live out my numbered years
With that clear sense of home to soothe my soul.

5 Comments:

Blogger Dymphna said...

Well-defined subject here and you peel back the layers to show the difficulties in living without the comforts of a space that is truly your own, the pain of "sculpting" that inner space which is your life long home.

Have you noticed that Robert Hunter handles this theme a lot? I think he wrote some of those songs when he was in that same threshold place you are.

One small quibble: is there a less-worn word than "fleeting" that you could use instead? I can't think of one offhand, but "fleeting" doesn't possess that elusive quality you seem to be reaching for. Instead, it says it for you...

...I'm probably not being very clear.

Man, you have a tough class there. Good on you. I'll bet it pulls you to a contemplative place, doesn't it? I love that about the struggle of writing poetry...I mean I love it afterwards!

4:42 PM  
Blogger Baron Bodissey said...

In place of "fleeting"?

Pretentious possibility: volant.

Other variants:
vagrant
faithless
errant

7:06 PM  
Blogger Gryffilion said...

Thoughts on the revised edition?

8:20 PM  
Blogger Dymphna said...

"numberd" is definitely it. I like it because it is a contained, limited word and this poem is about having containment and a growing sense of self that does not depend on the place they are.

So your word definitely fits.

8:47 AM  
Blogger Baron Bodissey said...

"Numbered" works very well. Gives more of a "fated" tone.

The whole thing works very well; it is excellent.

9:30 AM  

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