Abandoned and abused, I grew to fear you But in truth, I where reared by you
Bullied as other, ostracized by my peers Alone with daily jeers, leers and snears Childhood and adolescence, year after year Branding me as strange and queer
Yours the only company to keep me near Convincing me I’m a mere shadow Not really alive, not supposed to be here
Developed intimate knowledge of all your tiers As loneliness you have tooth and claws that tear Lead chains that trust steer Forged by every untruth spear Betrayal heart and soul sear Invisible barriers separating, from those you hold dear
Dark lonely nights your visits I fear Haunted hours filled with tears Leaving me hollow and sheer As pale dawn washes the heavens clear
After becoming a mother, I’ve started to befriend you, we’re Old pals, whatever the history, that’s clear Nowadays I even hold our moments dear Filled with new knowledge, hope and trust I’ll never again from my own side veer
All that I seek I can find within my own heart soul sphere
Loneliness has been much on my mind and in my feelings the last couple of weeks. Both the kind is need and seek. And the kind that can make me feel wholly alone in a room full of people.
So this poem is this week’s archive find.
This piece where not something I wished to write, but perhaps needed to write, as whatever I thought about the subject solitude – that I express both it and loneliness quite often – got drowned out by this piece rhymes running in loops in my mind.
In the prompt Björn writes; In today’s situation of social distancing, we all have taken a crash course in loneliness, and when learning to cope. Today I would like you to write about your own experience with how you find strength in solitude or how you still struggle with loneliness.
Life ebb and flow, Always heading towards that frightening unknowable goal It streams that way whether we flounder or soar That is why, the wise ones say Make the most out of every day Because you never know What hazards in the streambed lays
I played around with several triplets before deciding on putting some of them together. I wanted this to be more rhythmically complex than previous chants I’ve written. “Come Poets Hope” for example has the same rhythm throughout.
I imagine this being chanted by a whole coven. Either as a duet or trio. Perhaps even as a canon. Each stanza in itself works as a chant.
For many years the garden lay neglected. Fallow, overgrown with sorrow weeds and thorny trauma brambles. Creative stream choked off, the source strangled by fear. No longer filling the deep story pool. Unable to attract sparkling dragonflies of fantasy, buzzing idea bees or paradise birds flights of fancy.
The weeping willow shedding its leaves in grief. Becoming naked skeleton of raking nightmare fingers. The starving muse wilts and fades. Retreating into dark amnesic mist under the onslaught of anxiety rain, depressive storms.
A bolt of awakened lightning sheared through the bruised cloud cover. Putting the strangling weeds in flames. Rekindling the suffocated creative fire. Birthing a fierce Phoenix from the flames. Rousing the sleeping muse with a song of newfound life. Hailing the first ray of kind sunlight. Praising the smatter of nurturing rain.
Now the garden blooms and grows. Tended by the muse and the soul Phoenix. The brook babbles and laughs as it flows. The air is filled with fragrance, the sound of wings of every shape and size. Safe in the knowledge their host will never again, let anything her creativity compromise.
Written for Poetics: Garden(ing) at dVerse. As I took my evening walk, thinking about gardens and gardening. This is what came to mind. Following a thought about one of the first writing communities I found “Imaginary garden with real toads”. A place that made me feel welcome and a place who’s kind encouragement kept me writing through all my doubts, making me think that I could do this. I know many of you might have a hard time believing it. But I’ve been writing poetry for less than two years. I’m still finding my way and my voice.
This is not the first and probably won’t be the last time I’ve written something very personal to a prompt. My writing is both pent up creativity poured out, and a form of dealing with and working through everything that’s happened to me.
Up and down the city streets The place is quivering with heat Rising from the dusty concrete Undulating to the juke’s syncopated beat Everybody Chicago footworking their feet A dance where struggle liberation meets Echoing the racing heartbeats As the vocals reverse and repeat