From the drawer...
The other day I was thinking about how I haven't really written anything since I've been here. The self-condemnation was intense in light of my vast amount of free time.
I should note that when I write, I can get lost for days, and sometimes it takes me to dark places that I've been trying to avoid lately. So, admittedly I'm leery of letting go.
Tonight, I discovered that I was mistaken. I knew I hadn't cracked a journal since I moved in, but it turns out that I have an inch of random pages of thoughts piled up in my middle desk drawer.
As I pulled them out and started reading, I found two that feel particularly fitting today so I thought I'd share...
NEAR THE CENTER OF THE EARTH
The street musicians in the tunnels
are better than the ones
I just dropped a 20 to see
because their pain is real,
their hope is beautiful,
and their music is peace.
At the club, the poet lights a nickel bag
to get in touch with his pain.
In the tunnels near the center of the earth,
the pain is inescapable
and the poets beg the masses
to part with the crumpled dollars,
the nickels, in their pockets.
LOVING A MUSICIAN
Each refrain reminds me of you,
burns inside my mind.
There's no escape from your presence,
you are a part of me.
Mere words from you,
or a sideways glance,
send me reeling -
turn my whole life upside down,
change everything.
There are days when hearing your music -
the lush, smooth sound -
is torturous
like a zestier crossing my heart.
The high-hat can't get loud enough,
the bass never dark enough.
Your brush colors everything,
each stroke ten staffs
all on top of one another.
Alone, beautiful.
Taken together, a cacophony
too bright to bear,
raw and screaming,
that nothing can silence.
At that moment, I wish
I could return your music,
lift your melody from
my soul, and
make the longing stop.
If I could rap for you, I would -
find all the words you mean to me
and lay them down in front of you
so none of it could be taken back
or misinterpretted, taken lightly.
If I could, I'd unleash something scorching
that could never be played in the front room
but the back porch knows well.
I'd make you feel the raw desire,
smell the magnolias at night
when the air is so thick
it presses on your skin
and even the sweet tea sweats.
Posted by Amanda at November 07, 2002 11:08 PM
