I can’t do this anymore,
this stumbling in the dark.
I can’t see where I’m going,
or how to retreat back
My leaden steps are heavy;
clumsy, stuttered; a wreck
Who would accept this journey
without an end in sight?
With clouded, false eyes I see;
half blind, I navigate
in hazy chase; going where?
On this coarse, unset path.
Mind reaches point of flight;
Must find way back to safety.
Mind Wide Open
Lost in translation are the fragments of this beautiful life.
The eyes are not false. The image is false. When you write like this I am cut in two. First the quality of the writing excites and joy flows like fountains all down my anima but the also the meaning of the words cuts deep channels in my aminus to think you suffer so. Yes the way is dark and it seems as if there is no light BUT you are the light and the brighter you shine the clearer will be the way. Avoid those things that obfuscate your true self lay down the budles of rags and keep the real joys then light will "blaze like meteors and be gay".
ReplyDeleteWe cannot go back. We can only go forward or rest a while. Yes rest.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteI shall cloak myself in these words of great encouragement. I cannot stop this torment of feeling as if I'm aspiring to be something I am not equipped or gifted enough to be. The mental anguish is often so suffocating, I can't think straight or rational. And the worst part tarnishes the best part...I am in a place where, although my daily increase in expanding knowledge is amazing (multiple levels of such), there is not a finite measuring system in place to gauge my progress or position as a writer. So here you have the enemy's playground, and all the equipment to go along with it...the million dollar question: Why do I play along; aren't I more clever than this? Yet I stumble...How can one thank enough those that breathe living words back into her crippled body?
ReplyDeleteJen, I like the poem and appreciate both its feeling and its honesty, but I think your reply to Mr. Weallans is even more a feat of true human experience and poetic words.
ReplyDeleteThere is a school of thought that allowing yourself to be thoroughly consumed by the mind's darkness, instead of resisting it, can lead to escape from the pain AND greater artistry. Most poets write their best work during the worst of times.
I am frightened in the darkness of my mind...a scary place I've never ventured very far into. My general disposition is the antithesis to this whole genre of attitude and geographic coordinate.
ReplyDeleteAnd, yes, I often catch a glimpse of my deepest pain in words beautified. It is at this revelation my thoughts become more entangled...as if to say, "So what, you've arranged some words; what's so special about that?" Which usually is followed up with, “And here they’ll sit, and go no further.” Thus birthing every writer’s nightmare: Words that hit the page and go no further.
That others have gone before me, many share my pain, or some just simply understand my battle, is like a breadcrumb trail…it’s just enough to sustain me a little while longer while I find my way in the dark.
The darkness of the mind is probably one of the most frightening places to ever be lost in. But don't forget, darkness before dawn, and "this too shall pass." I don't think that the mind's sorrows should be suffered too long - some darkness is necessary in order to appreciate the light. But when the world your mind creates is too frightening to even step into, then I think it is important to consider every possible avenue towards a cathartic source.
ReplyDeleteI think every poet battles the same insecuritites and questions as you ~ and those who do not probably are not genuine poets. Words are never just words, for they are the tools we, as humans, utilize to connect and bind our souls to each other and the world.
I often question my own abilities, and even my ability to improve! It's so normal, and even beneficial. Writers who are fullof themselves can't take that necessary breathing time. Just to breathe ... and wonder ... and LEARN about the heart and mind and soul.
As I've been obsessed with John Keats lately, I can promise that he suffered from the same doubts and fears. In fact, he died at age 25, never knowing he would become one of the greatest poets in history. His gravestone doesn't even bear his name, yet the lips of half the world's readers do! I encourage you to see "Bright Star," just be forwarned that it is long and slow-moving (I didn't think so, but I love artsy, slow films, haha).
<3 feel better