I often say
the “if only”
would make me
what I’m not
that I am
Here’s another selection culled from my personal book of poetry. Look here to see a previous entry.
The editor in me wants to change it, correct bits, rewrite or hide it. The blogger in me thinks this is simply who I was when I wrote it and it shouldn’t be changed. I’ll let you decide.
So, here it is, a poem about a sunset. It was written a long, long time ago, another lifetime ago. I can still remember the sunset, feel the cool air, feel the me I was.
Wish I’d taken a photo. Maybe this poem serves as a replacement for a photograph. A snapshot of my much younger self, daring, confident, certain of my view of the world and ready to share it.
I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.
I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can’t do a handstand–
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said–
I’m just not the same since there’s rain in my head.
—Shel Silverstein (1930 – 1999)
Here’s a bit more of Shel Silverstein if you’re in the mood for something delightful, delicious and zany.
- Writer Waiting, Poem and Drawing by Shel Silverstein (silverbirchpress.wordpress.com)
- Invitation to Poetry, Poem by Shel Silverstein (silverbirchpress.wordpress.com)
- the lion’s cage. (sweettearevolutions.wordpress.com)
- The Wisdom of Shel Silverstein (theinplace.wordpress.com)
I once fancied myself a poet of sorts. I let go of that idea for a long time. Then, I recently came across a book of collected poems by my younger self. Each poem was typed, then cut out and carefully pasted into a blank book. The gold lettering, hand-pressed to the outside cover and spine, still looks pretty good. It’s the most professional look I could manage given the technology of the time.
Now I could key in an address, get out my credit card and order up a professionally printed, bound, self-authored, illustrated book. Maybe someday.
There’s an honest quality to the typewritten page. The corrected type speaks volumes. The indentations that punctuation make into the paper give the poem a tangible finality.
The temptation to edit and polish the poem before sharing it was strong. But, I like the unjaded, unedited perspective of youth. To quell the editor in me I simply photographed the poem from the page in my book to share right here.
I’m not sure I have it in me anymore to write poetry. It’s a stark, open-bellied, sense of exposure to write a poem. There isn’t any excess verbiage to hide behind, no explanatory prefacing. It’s like a literary photograph. The writer must say, “This is my perspective, this is what I saw, nothing more, nothing less. Take it or leave it.”
Peel back the layers.
A crust of clothing disguises.
A mantle of skin, muscle, and bone
Houses and protects.
A core of Spirit,
The Life-giving center,
This post was written as a Trifecta challenge response. Please check out their site and see what great stuff they’re generating from writers.