Poetry from the Vault

It is precisely the sort of thing I am always trying to do in my writing – to present my unhappy reader with a wide-ranged chaos – of actions and reactions, thoughts, memories and feelings – in the vain hope that at the end he will see that the whole thing represents only one moment, one feeling, one person. A raging, trumpeting jungle of associations, and then I announce at the end of it, with a gesture of despair, ‘This is I!

–Conrad Aiken

I don’t often write poetry but it does tend to worm its way out of me at random points. I keep a journal for when those moments hit, and it’s very much a chaotic flurry of prose until the deed is done. I liken it to Conrad Aiken’s method of free form writing, though I’m nowhere near his mastery of it. Still, I’ve written a small pile of my own, and usually forget they even exist until I come across the journal by accident. Such was the case today, as I, restless with the hope of Spring while mired still in Winter’s mud, came across a few poems written in haphazard fashion over the last 5 years, while organizing. I thought I’d share a few, just for the act of getting them out there. I’ve been told I’m far too shy and reserved with my writing, so this is my meager attempt at sharing. After all, when it really comes down to it, I suppose sharing a bad poem is better than sharing none at all.

Father for A Daughter

All I ever wanted

Was to be your daughter

But your absence told me much more

About what it takes to be a father

Housewarming Party

If I let you into my house,

What would you think?

Would you pass by my stacks of books,

And see my life scrawled across so many pages,

Would you see my animals,

See my love in the way they love,

Would you look at the artwork strewn across my desk,

And see how my heart bled on the paper,

Would you see my son, love him,

The way I love him, the way he is,

Or would you see it all,

The sum of me,

And think “no thanks, That’s all I needed to see,”

If I let you into my house,

And bared my existence to you,

Would you turn back to the door, and walk away?

Would you go, or would you stay?

(Letting you through that door was terrifying, but I’m glad you came)


Just a little longer, that’s what the dreams say,

Hold back the sorrow,

Hold back the anger,

Hold back the urge,

To run away from it all.

Just a little longer, that’s what you told me,

Though it’s been days,

Though it’s been months,

Though it’s been years,

With no end in sight.

Just a little longer, that’s what I tell myself,

In whispers,

In moments between seconds,

In heavy sighs and deep breaths,

Trying to push past the flood.

Just a little longer,

Just a little longer,

Just a little longer,

Until we have no longer,

Because all our moments were spent,

Waiting, just a little longer.

One response to “Poetry from the Vault”

  1. Conrad sends his love from The Universal Substance. Mary too. Damnably good letters organized into readable lines I might add. But more than that, they ripple across the heart pebbles making them feel not so small and gathered in a greater symphonic sound. Even if a portion of the audience, only experiences their sound which is perhaps the real purpose or function. Afterall, most people do not read music, they just experience its parts or total. Which come to think, is both universal and subjective all intertwined at once. Poets are really word musicians are they not? Some like yourself, more composers. They sit long and hard and contemplate how the words strung together will make sound in others, the world. It’s primordial somehow, this want to communicate with word instruments. Which of course, sounds all very serious. I’d think that poets do a little busking on the side just for its own pleasure and feel your writing lives somewhere between both. It’s thought provoking but full of honest feeling.

    Liked by 1 person

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