So I’ve been simmering the last few weeks. Actually, maybe that’s not true. I’ve been boiling over, which tends to be the time when I DON”T write. When work and world are going too fast for me, poetry is my escape. It doesn’t require that I read or think in full sentences. It captures essence. It’s about feeling not doing. And this, to me, feels free.
I keep coming back to this one from W.H.Auden:
He was my North, my South, my East, my West
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever. I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now. Put out every one.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Dramatic? Yes. But, when life is busy, when it is full of the yucky, gray areas that constantly leave you wondering, “Am I doing this right?”, pure emotion like this – unchecked by logic – feels so much simpler.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun…I’d prefer to start fresh tomorrow.