(This is one of my quasi stream-of-consciousness poems, from 2 March 2017. The musical "catalyst" I was listening to is the instrumental cover of Sam Smith’s “Stay With Me” done by Brooklyn Duo, linked below.)

I feel like listening to music
Soaking in beauty and weeping
I feel like standing out in a storm and being blown away
By the wind stripping everything bare
I feel like sinking to the bottom of a lake
And taking one last gasp for air
Feeling the still and the dark
The pressure of the water and
The softness of the murky floor
I feel like flying away, a kite
Brightness lost in the colorless clouds
I feel like soaring I feel like falling I feel like sinking
I feel a piece missing from my heart
Left behind somewhere that I passed by
Waving to me through the bus window
While it pulls away
But I was not looking
And I did not know
I feel like sitting here I feel like running to the end of the world
I feel like holding on to everything and throwing it all away
I feel like crying and like there is no use in tears
I feel frozen and at the same time melted
Filled with the peculiar calm that only comes in chaos
A demure Resignation joining hands with my Ambition
As they dance along the street
Saying who cares that we may be odd bedfellows
They smile sad smiles and share doleful joy
Gazing into each other’s mysterious faces
And wondering what lies in their depths
Laughing and teasing
Turning secretly away
To cry in hurt and shame
Pulling too hard
Pushing too far
Breaking away
Leaving scars
Of misunderstanding
On a tormented soul
Torn and tossed and bewildered
Wanting everything gone
Yet mourning and longing already for all the things I love
Wondering what is love, really
And why is it worth living
Crying from a suffocating heart
Looking for meaning in the world
A way to make sense of things
I do not make sense myself
Forgetting to breathe
Lying here
I could so easily be gone
I want to be swept away
I want to be freed
This mind this body this world
Swallow me
And who am I
Existence is such a queer thing
So here we are
Take a sigh
Take a bow
Lights out
Who knows what dreams will come
Of feeling
And not feeling
And ending it all
I breathe
I feel
I turn over
One foot continues in front of the other
On this strange and strangling path
My heart throbbing
As if the life is bleeding out of me

Heart throbbing
Throbbing heart
Throbbing
Heart

Can one live without this pain
Is this throbbing
Merely what it means
To even have a heartbeat

____________________________


https://youtu.be/B22eZY1PESY?fbclid=IwAR3qZE5VmI6k7wjQ6kybFpJ3BeFn4vP5OWFjQv1YebWi4H3_yts8lEw2Bfw

~ Some think spring has almost come in Petersburg ~
(11-26 February 2019) 

At first this existence seems beautiful
Appears some brilliant, pristine crystal
Then that very ice melts and
What remains is cigarette butts
And the stench of sidewalk refuse
Suspended in the brumous delta air
Snow turns to chilling sleet
Then to flurrying snow again
Swirling and shimmering down
Into half-frozen slush puddles
Beneath insidious bands of icicles
Those precious jewel-flakes twirl
As if descending royal stairs
Only to join the sparkling city dirt
As the damp cold redoubles
To the tune of forlorn cats
Wailing outside balcony windows

Wind blows
Feet slip
And people flow like rivers

_
_
_
_

That entire thing started on 11 February with this:

“At first this life seems beautiful //
Then the ice melts and what’s left is cigarette butts and the stench of sidewalk refuse.”

If I were more of a true #nihilist I would have left it at that.

The official beginning of spring in Russia is 1 March. At the very end of February there was hardly any snow around. Since then we have had lots of snowfall and now another bit of a thaw. I was neither so morose nor so disgusted on 11 February, but some of the street smells in warmer weather are truly quite revolting, and it was nearly amazing to see the buildup of cigarette butts on shrinking sidewalk snowbanks. I am sharing this even though I am not entirely satisfied with it. I rarely am anyhow with what I write. Maybe I will rewrite it later.

A poem — “Don’t cry over spilled milk”

5 March 2019 — 

“Don’t cry over spilled milk”


It’s a rough
And tumble
World sometimes
Soft and
Sometimes hard
Moments so often
Unexpected
Surprising
Like lifting a half-empty
Milk carton
That you had thought
Was full
And the jolt of
Your arm
Into the air
And even
Sometimes you
Really do
Cry
Over spilled milk
That you dropped
On the kitchen floor
And you hear
Laughter
Cut off the voice
That had begun
Repeating
That proverb
Not knowing
Over what
Stood that little girl
Crying
Because sometimes
Grasping life
And
The unexpected
Can be
So hard and
Your deeply finite soul
And hands
Cannot
Hold it all

I am gradually realizing that physical health problems and exhaustion factor oh so prominently in how salient the utterly mean and discouraging voices in my head become. Emotional health and physical health are hardly separate. There is no shame in needing rest and no failure in needing time to heal. Take care and let the love flow.