Saturday, 7 April 2012

NaPoWriMo 2012 day 7

too frustrated and aggravated and pent up to sleep. so i read a few articles and then, reading a poem by LaYinka Sanni and then another by Warsan Shire, decided rather than just once again be frustrated by my own lack of skill, i'd be inspired by their honesty and aspire instead.

a friend tonight told me to 'write and relax a little/get back into the flow'. she said also perhaps i am competing with myself. to the former, my initial reaction was more frustration - how can i relax when i can't achieve what i'm trying so hard to achieve. then i realised she's right ('you're right - i know you're right), and that basically i'm coming at this like 'write a great poem - write it now - now, dammit!' rather than just writing and seeing what comes. so i guess that the below is my first attempt at that since i started this month.

as for the self-competition - i don't know any other way to be, and i'd be lying if i said i did
- - - - - - - - - - -

my writing embarrasses me
never does as its told
won't sit still, keep its place
wear the face i envisage for it
my ideas are lofty
appreciation of other's expressions
as deep as my mother's commendation
of friends' grade cards
comparing isn't a bad thing
when you're only using it to get better

so i sit and write
and write
and write
because sometime between then and now
something in me went missing
something in me got broke

can't find it in the diaries stacked
on cluttered drawer tops
though there are hints
in the smiles that are raised
by my younger foolish self
no more foolish than now, mind
perhaps then even a little less so

it's not in the forced smiles
that don't meet my eyes
in any photo of me
discomfit sitting uppermost
as i ask to be excused
from visual memory

so i sit and write
and write
and write
because if its lost then it must be someplace
somewhere waiting to be found
gathering scuffs as its kicked about

and the wanting overwhelms the writing
every pretension in the world
rushing to be expressed
twisting my fingers into fists
that mishandle the pen
producing misshapen phrases
leaden clich├ęs

promises to self lay broken
cracked, discarded before use
sleep is the ultimate false fantasy
i shelf it over and over
telling myself how great it will be
how great i will be
ho much better
when i finally get it
under control
not even scared anymore
by the fact i know
that's just another lie

so i sit and write
and write
and write
because somehow to not just isn't an option
whatever comes out will just have to suffice
and maybe one day it actually will

No comments:

Post a Comment