Had a really interesting class discussion with R and M. M asked R & I’s thoughts on the first two lines of “Poetry is not a luxury” by Audre Lorde.1 Our discussion was really enjoyable. R spoke about the self, the scrutiny, and the close-off/standoffish nature of prisons. Not sharing. But also healing, which M spoke about. R talked about sharing thoughts with others, but the balance of being quiet. I connected the scrutiny of the self directly impacts a product, not only poetry but the, as A called it, “Persona.” The attitude I have towards myself, but also with others….[From my personal experience] trauma affects my “product,” but I get to choose what I do with that input. Is it damaging or powerful? You best damn believe that me writing this now is more powerful than I have ever been before. That’s the truth. Yet what really encouraged our conversation was our discussion of therapy. I think on paper, our discussion was very closed off emotionally, but I think vulnerable in the oddly masculine way. The relationship R and I have with therapy and M’s questions for us in regards to our thoughts about it. Why do we go to therapy? What is it for? Are we afraid of being judged? Could we be harmed by others from what we say in therapy? Why did I stop going? I want to learn coping skills, but I also need someone to challenge me. Usually, I am used to these conversations being rather taboo, especially amongst men at least, but I think it was very easygoing, and I think we had a lot of conversations across generations. Wonderful to say the least.
I wrote a poem in regard to one of my long-standing fears, but perhaps fear is too generous. My new fling, philosophically speaking, is Death. Scares the shit out of me. Spaces, like Hill, I think both remind me, but separate me from that fear. We talk a lot about mortality, I think, crimes surrounding death, sentencing for life, and death via incarceration. Yet, in that space, Hill becomes a time capsule. Physically. The Room? Always the same, besides the chairs occasionally moving. Our conversations usually pick up where we left off, or we have the same ones again. Hill, our classroom, operates at a different timescale. I think time is extremely relative there. But also, hearing the men speak, with age, wisdom, etc., reminds me of the time I have left to live. I think also the energy and excitement the men bring…inspires me. I don’t know. I wrote to be more positive in regard to my life. Wouldn’t trade it for nothing…
Cemetery
Poem inspired by a poetry workshop. Thanks to V for the inspiration.
Hello Cold Place. A Place, long spent dwelling, fearing
The Unknown. The dark. Worms crawling between my ribs.
This is it. What was it for?
Was it worth the anguish? The Fear? Overwhelming
Feeling of dread. Pulsing. Clawing, At my once youth filled mind.
Question of what’s next? Heaven? Hell? Or the nothing?
Painfully Empty.
I remember. Being told, long before the worms. 1/5 my life.
Mortality becomes real. Perhaps that was my spark
Which lit the two fuses of my life.
One wick that now reaches its end. The fear. My Pain.
Pain of loss. Of loved ones, who hopefully did not bury their son.
Pain of chances forever missed. The sprawl of endless infinity.
But most of all
The pain of not knowing what is next & what legacy I leave behind.
Yet, I cannot help but watch. As my breathing slows.
The other wick, still full of youth, crackling energy.
Marches Onward.
My love, for those moments, laughter tears, that made life worth
Living.
My Hope, that my time made others sparkle a little
Brighter.
My dreams, that perhaps, what’s next, won't be the same as
This life.
But most of all, my place is to feed the worms as my wick burns onward
Forever more.
- “The quality of light by which we scrutinize our lives has direct bearing upon the product
which we live, and upon the changes which we hope to bring about through those lives. It is within this light that we form those ideas by which we pursue our magic and make it realized.” ↩︎