It’s open link night 40 over at dVerse Poets! Here’s my poem:
there is always the need to fill,
running away from the moment
and into, into what?
but a space I can fill where I don’t belong
where no one belongs
because it isn’t quite real
and I need I need I need
those pills, those smokes,
those songs, those words
what are the words where are they I
can’t seem to write
the first chapter, I’m in media res
so why write what has no final chapter?
there are the unanswered questions, those
moments shining with purpose
and meaning and no conclusion
like ourselves, shining out there
body heavy, mind light
my hands are empty, why
are they still empty?
it’s been three years since
the post-traumatic diagnosis
they weren’t kidding when they said chronic
I’ve moved in two spaces, one at the pace
of glaciers melting and murdering, and one
in sound waves only I hear, the buzz of the bee
outside my window, where I watch his fat belly
hum and sway near the bud, thinking
to myself how lovely the simple things,
how I’ve learned grace.
and then the knife divides the states and
I am but another chaser of
what can possibly fill me?
14 thoughts on “Void”
who can possibly know that last chapter..? and yet we write and write, unfinished, half empty, hungry, thirsty…and in the process, magic happens..that’s how it’s often for me…raw, real and felt write amy
thanks Claudia, as always, I look forward to your writes and your comments. You’re a “getter”
haha love the train of conciousness in this, it made me a bit frantic here and there but…arent we all just trying to fill the void….i know i did for years….
Yes Brian. Filling that damn void. I felt frantic writing it too, glad it translated over
Intense rush of thought and feeling–you are right–so hard to begin without knowing the ending and only knowing the dramas, cataclysmic, which should come some where in the midst–a very poignant piece. K.
thanks very much, Manic!
You write in such a beautful & honest way, Amy…I can’t help being moved but also glad you have this outlet ..we’re all on a journey of sorts. And hey, you’re not a bad writer yourself, you know… 🙂
Thanks Louise. You’re right, we are all on a journey in our own ways. I’m such a fan of yours 🙂
A poem that hits in the head and the gut at the same time. Ah, that last chapter; we’re always writing towards it, but we’ll only know how it ends when we get there.
Thanks Chris for the comment and for stopping by!
I have a phrase that haunts me–heard it in a movie years ago–no idea which one–‘Our beginnings do not our endings know..’ It was a sad movie, needless to say. Your piece has that feel, of just looking for ??? and nothing computing. But bees…bees are good. And on the other hand, rather freeing to think the beginning doesn’t dictate the ending, actually. Filling the holes is a life’s work.
Maybe this is a universal feeling that we don’t accept because we keep getting busy so as not to feel it. A therapist once told me I had “conversion disorder.” I only accept it to the degree that I think all emotional trauma is manifested physcially when not addressed/comforted/seen/healed.
I love how you pay attention.
Visceral, real. And it feels like a part of a longer narrative, an exploration of the self evolving, a memoir of introspection. Would love to see that develop.
I think the poem neatly and adroitly stands on the difficult degree of between-ness, half-healed half-wild, half-articulate half-howl, half-shored half-drowning: A place without conclusion that is a good enough end in itself. Emerson thought all the meaning was in the leap to meaning and not in the conclusion; shamans wore feathered cloaks so their songs could navigate the mad thermals of disease; the poet coins words to form sufficient islands along the way, momentary places of rest which turn out to be the best that can be attempted amid so much meaninglessness. One comes to appreciate that these stays against silent confusion are enough for today, are all the grace that one may find, can give back. – brendan