paisleypiper's Diaryland Diary

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sorry

Another night of not being able to sleep. I am working on meeting so many deadlines and juggling so many things that every time I lay down all of my thoughts begin to float. And then, with a brain of scattered fragments all bumping into each other, I give up and get back up.

There are so many things for which to watch out. I am unable to do anything without causing some impact on someone else. Without making anything that much harder. I try to live without always having to step more lightly, tread more softly, not have to wish that I just hadn�t brought anything up or asked any questions. My entire life has been like this. And I wonder if it should matter that I live at all, sometimes, because I cannot go a day without wishing I could take it all back and revise it.

Each day I get more and more sick. Ailments add themselves into the roll count of my body. An eye twitch, horrible pains in my side, growths, head aches, sinus aches, constant nausea, exhaustion. Peace would be nice. A large soft blanket. Early spring breeze that just snaps the thin, brittle branch that hung in through the long dark months. That feeling of hearing underwater.

One day I am going to find that peace. It isn�t today. Or in any future I can imagine. I am the person who tries so hard to not make a sound in the night but steps on every creaky floor board en route to the bathroom.

SO, anyway. I can�t decide what I think about Quincy Troupe�s poetry. Tonight I read a chunk of his collected poems and I am completely torn. There is always something I can learn or admire in most poetry, and I certainly wish I had more rhythm in my own poetry. But I think I have a different sense of rhythm and a different sense that propels my poetry. His poems are propelled like discs whirling through space. But sometimes the short range of images get tiring. The meanings constructed from the effect of reading several poems in a sitting become somewhat confused upon reflection. But for all of the confusion he has his moments that are much greater than the moments of many less adventuresome poets. That is the thing with life. The brilliant moments are out on the edges, and the only way to get there is to go. But going means leaving behind some of the other conventions that are, perhaps, too much admired.

Here's the poem I revised for poetry bootcamp tomorrow. But Not to End in Silent White

I.

The unfinished portrait shaded the landing;
With grandpa there we learned to watch
our feet as we climbed the stairs.

Grandma told secrets in the burnt umber
of the shadow layer. She chased death
across his face, leaving him moonlit

and moody, his thin skin reaching
across his dark canvas soul.
When people die their secrets

pass whether forgiven or forgotten.
The rest of their story never escaped
her pear wood palette, where mounds

of viridian, lead tin yellow, madder lake
dried to dirt. Fragile, transparent flakes
of varnish waited to be dissolved.

She might have captured in his face
the way he watched the sun dry brush
the sky around Mount Washington.

II.

For years I cringed at crossed
wooden sticks planted in the dirt,
amazed at how he kept up with life,

mostly. Out of naive love I tried
to keep death from telling him
its secrets. Veering winds make space

for clear skies and warm sun. In the valley
hikers treated August like summer,
preparing to meet loose rocks and wind.

Father and son hiked through a cathedral
of ancient pines; scrambled
rough terrain before the mountain

turned on them. Remembering earlier times,
the father said "My life is as beautiful
as this view," unwilling to see the wind

bend trees, drive ice and snow
in their faces. Forced by his urge to live,
the son kept pulling his scraped,

frozen body across the rocks and dirt.
Ice formed on his face and hair.
White snow covered the way back.

1:30 a.m. - 2003-02-05

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