This Horrible Care

I have been loved cruelly and hated gently;
have been struck and burnt and bled from affection and
have been kept free from harm by those who distrust me.
I have known a great few things
and none, ever, of any importance.

I have heard famous men speak of traits and characters-
the same spiel, it seems, touted by antique physiognomers –
and claiming these five traits,
these five ‘mental characteristics’
(slanting, sly noses; stubborn brows)
can tell all of a person.
These famous men are idiots;
lower even than I
who has never known anything of importance.

Brackish

Some cups hold water and some cups hold wine
some cups are brackish; some brim with brine
some drinks keep you living and some keep you wild
and telling the difference heaps time on a child.

A Song Heard Backwards

My earliest memories are of a final note,
resolute, droning, crashing – rote,
an idiot’s drumming at an idiot’s whims,
and then, in my youth, the melody sprung in
the sweetest strings, so light, so airy,
the sounds of meadows where birdsongs vary
and the sound of snow on sledding hills,
then, I aged, and came the trills,
the sharp and painful trumpet blows
the epic highs –
the bastard lows
and now the song fills me with fear:
Before it starts
what will I hear?

A Year In-verse

Howdy everyone,

Yesterday’s post marked the culmination of a year-long project to write an original piece every single day. I’d like to talk a little bit about what I’ve learned (personally) from the process.

Don’t write a new piece every day if you’re expecting perfection. The old adage that writing every day is a good habit rings true, however, after about a month I realized that writing and posting so quickly eroded a lot of the stylistic flourishes that I really enjoy writing. More so, editing every day becomes a struggle when combined with daily obligations, work, etc. Leaving a bit of leeway with the daily output was the only way to stay sane.

Writing a unique poem everyday will alter your style. My poems towards the end of the year lacked the strict structures and alliteration that I really enjoy writing, but it was a chance to explore a lot of different patterns and styles and see what I liked.

It’s okay to write multiple poems about the same topic. I don’t know why this initially felt like a sticking point to me, but it was necessary to overcome. Look at how many love verses Shakespeare wrote without ever fully capturing the emotion – there is always something new to say, or a new way to say it.

All that being said, I don’t think I’m going to continue writing a fresh poem every day. I’ve decided that, personally, I enjoy sitting with my poems for a week or so and really tinkering with them line-by-line. Although I suspect this comes down to personal preference, I think the most beautiful lines emerge in the editing process.

Thanks for sticking with me,
Wolf.

 

act of love

no love for myself,
only vicious, stupid lust,
meeting myself in strange places and
hoping my wife doesn’t find me like this.

there is no love for myself
only the tearing of clothes,
the false promise of satisfaction and
a deep hunger for more.

there is no love for myself
and this story does not end well,
I refuse to learn any lessons from this,
I burn the wounds shut before they heal.

Quicksand

The movies say it pulls you in and under,
drowns you quick,
crushing, suffocating, a bad death.
The truth is worse,
you don’t fully sink,
your legs just get stuck, and then
the sun beats down on your face,
the rains come, the nights go,
the jackals pass the periphery of the pit
and watch you with sad, hungry eyes,
before resuming their scavenge.
The truth is always worst.

This Kind of Love

This kind of love is deadly,
this kind of love is trite,
this feeling dwells in starless places,
this feeling deepens the night,
your legs wrap around my waist,
my hands wrap around your throat,
the catch of breath, the empty confessions
divulging much and no truth of note:
I love you,
I love you,
and lesser lies;
I love you,
I love you,
and these constant,
(supposedly) final
goodbyes