Last weekend I wrote two sonnets on Facebook. I did not set out to write them, but I had the opening lines in my head. That's how poetry usually comes to me: an opening line or phrase. I don't sit down and think about the big picture that my poems should represent, or the imagery they should evoke. Most of the time, I don't even know where the poem leads, until I am midway writing it, and only then the message unfolds. In that sense, I will never be a real poet; I know that much is true.
The sonnets I wrote over the weekend are Shakespearean: abab cdcd efef gg. The Italian ones are more complicated. The first one is eight syllables per line, and the second one ten. The first three stanzas form the imagery, and the last brings the revelation. Something like that. I think. As I said, I'm not a poet.
For the first sonnet, I had the first line in my head for several nights before I wrote it down: "you hold a sparrow in your hands". Why a sparrow, and not a swallow or a lark or a raven? I'm not sure. Maybe one day, long after I'm gone, people will break apart these poems and write theories on what kind of person I was. The first line of the second sonnet comes from a weekly prompt for a closed group on Facebook: write a short prose/poem starting with "Go on, I dare you...".
Two sonnets over the weekend. I don't know if it's impressive or not, since each was written under ten minutes. The message for both, however....
Before anyone can psychoanalyze the sonnets, I will say that both are about not being worthy of being loved, of being in a relationship, yet at the same time unwilling to let go of the possibility of happiness even when it turns toxic.
Yeah my subconscious is yelling at me.
Because, at the end of the day, poetry, just like prose, is writing. And I only write stories to sort issues in my head. I've tried writing for the sake of writing or for competitions, and even though those stories are published, they somehow feel...off, like an important ingredient is missing.
And now, even more worrying, is that the people of my novels-work-in-progress are making a comeback. Two of them are chatting, bantering, while the one that I hold most dear and am afraid of the most is lurking at the corner, at the peripheries of my vision (no, he's not from a horror novel).
I've managed to write two short stories in December, each over five thousand words. Overnight works, about 10 hours per story. One has been accepted for publication, while the other is still waiting its verdict.
The last time I wrote was in February.
Close friends are rejoicing at the return of my red-headed muse, but she only comes to me when there is an imbalance in my being. I have an idea what the source of that imbalance is, but then again, it has haunted me all my life.
Writing doesn't bring me happiness. It doesn't give me a sense of relief. It's merely a way to channel my thoughts and emotions, to give form to the monsters within myself. Writing and drawing are the only things that I have of myself, for myself.
Maybe one night I'll finally sing to the monster.
Hands
You hold a sparrow in your hands
and feel the beating of its heart;
The bird spreads its wings in a dance
As it unfolds, and falls apart.
You plant a seed in your garden
and watch the sapling break its mound;
The tree grows from the sapling green,
then turns brown, and bows to the ground.
You clasp the hand of whom you love,
You hold her close, and don't let go;
You treat her as a fragile dove,
and hide her, lest the bruises show.
How can you nurture and bring joy
When your hands are made to destroy?
Go on, I dare you
Go on, I dare you to tear me apart
Take this beating heart of mine and break it;
That was what you wanted, right from the start
To trample me and crush me with you feet.
Go on, I dare you to utter the truth,
Go on, walk up that stage and speak your mind;
That was what you wanted, to be uncouth
It was me that you wanted to malign.
Go on, I dare you tell the whole world
how I was never there, and never cared;
Tell them I never let your wings unfurl
to escape this prison that we both shared.
Crush me, deny me, ignore me, hate me,
But please, love, please live, and don't die on me.
