These days are dry or soft or rained on or rainbowed.
These days can be filled with tears.
These days are spent quietly, in recollection of the other wilderness days spent.
These days are spent trying one's best.
These are the days prior to reaching the Promised Land.
These days are now.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Mikaela's Poems
She had lost her stash of poems more than once. Mikaela. Once when her personal computer crashed, and some four years worth of lyric sensibility went with the delete button. Her short life lived went with it, each moment of unexplainable joy, immature grief and overemphasized struggles. She, however, in every bit of fairness, has made some worth out of those emotions, and although the experiences were undoubtedly limited and amateur, the poems spoke more than they should have. Either the feelings dug deeper or the coldness too piercing, that her lines gave more than justice to her everyday. But, despite all of their relative glory, they were lost.
Another instance was when she, after a time of separation form her lyric abilities, after the onslaught of worldly detachment, apathy and belittling of poetry’s importance, mindlessly hid her limited new collection. They were never to be found again; they have been forgotten. Those poems filled with a collective and tiring theme of pragmatism have been forgotten, as if in concurrence to an argument that poetry – even free verse – and pragmatism together never really worked.
Mikaela has lost her poems at another time or two, when she was younger, at about twelve. She, on the verge of puberty, finding everything about herself too embarrassing kept / hid / threw away her poems. Insecurities have crept in and they were just words. Yet these words, like all others that she has strung together, were words that lived.
She doubts that she will ever find her old poems again, along with their processed feelings of love, wanting, loss and adulation. They have gone to some place where no one can read them again, or, strangely but possibly, a forgotten place where another can find solace in Mikaela's musings. But now, with the loss / new beginning brought about by the absence of any evidence showing the life that her words once had, Mikaela writes again.
Another instance was when she, after a time of separation form her lyric abilities, after the onslaught of worldly detachment, apathy and belittling of poetry’s importance, mindlessly hid her limited new collection. They were never to be found again; they have been forgotten. Those poems filled with a collective and tiring theme of pragmatism have been forgotten, as if in concurrence to an argument that poetry – even free verse – and pragmatism together never really worked.
Mikaela has lost her poems at another time or two, when she was younger, at about twelve. She, on the verge of puberty, finding everything about herself too embarrassing kept / hid / threw away her poems. Insecurities have crept in and they were just words. Yet these words, like all others that she has strung together, were words that lived.
She doubts that she will ever find her old poems again, along with their processed feelings of love, wanting, loss and adulation. They have gone to some place where no one can read them again, or, strangely but possibly, a forgotten place where another can find solace in Mikaela's musings. But now, with the loss / new beginning brought about by the absence of any evidence showing the life that her words once had, Mikaela writes again.
Prologue
As I watched the dry leaf rustle through the drier earth as the stern wind blew, the sudden rush of a strong current deafened me. The sound was clear, as the waters that gave it power. Yes, it shall quench this dry earth. Yes it will give life once again to my leaf. Yes, it will give me life.
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