Poetry Comparison ‘Days Don’t Write’
Well, I happened to write a part 2 to a poem I wrote over a year ago. I would like to compare them and put them together now on this here Tumblrerer. This is an important subject to me, yet it doesn’t seem to hold its importance as the days go on. Never the less. Here are the two parts.
~
Days Don’t Write (summer of ‘07)
The days that I do not write
become their own unfamiliar
reality, I’m shifting through
a smog of tender force,
the way the days go
I’m away from home.
I am healthfully re-introduced
to the twirls of warm embrace
with a somber song or
to be in my own desolate chair
to chalk up more of this existence,
the wind visits through the windows.
As I disband the pen for
this somehow elsewhere,
I feel somehow intimidated
to have my sword hidden
in my other cave.
People being people and
I’m keeping silent, honing
my invisible blade at
all the remarkable engines
of this world’s facility.
Call me taciturn or some
other fasciando of words,
I’m summoning up my characters.
Dragon’s flying
flames are rising,
rainfall’s steaming
jungle’s breathing.
All the fantastic things
are wrestling in my heart.
Fair do not doubt the
extravagant amount of Love
I have for all that is ‘you’
but all of this excitement
calls for the Boding Over,
I should rest when my poet
is satisfied to have
discerned the greater feeling
and can sleep again.
Please, forgive my mirror.
The days that we do not
express a point of interest
are lost or stored,
are sad days of regret.
Could you come back
with a higher vitality
some other day
and feel God-like?
Or feel very human
the way you shudder
on a snowy night.
I fail to believe that
we can escape the
destiny of meaning,
but to all fairness
I believe we can
shape the form
in which that
destiny comes.
The days that I do not write
become their own unfamiliar
reality, I’m shifting through
a smog of tender force,
the way the days go
I’m away from home.
~
Days Don’t Write (Part 2) (fall of ‘08)
Days Don’t Write (Part 2)
These days along my journals
are the unwritten pages,
on these days I did not write
I must have felt zombified.
To not recollect mystifying notions
I am vexed into a dark damnedness
of blankness, coldness and numbness.
On the other side of these unwritten pages
are my dreams calling out to me,
one is my youthful self aching out to me
to seize the energies of women with sincerity
and another is my voice belting out at me
so annoyingly that I begin to shout back
(the moment when one writes.)
My mustache grows
and with that I feel a certain absurdity of
heaven and hell battling within me.
An epic battle of every thought I’ve had
clashing as matter does to form planets,
exploding through my flesh and spirit,
through my heart and my brain repeatedly.
Of brutality preluding fraility,
entrails of the old lovers who birthed out poetry.
The deaths and resurrections, the dancing nanoseconds,
the beasts and the eggs in cahoots to hatchings —
a pulsing cesspool pumps through-out me
and the tip of my pen shattering
opens a window to a raucous hell of
night creatures romping and
collapsing holes to an underground
where lurks life in special stasis.
My journal transforms into a spiralled tube
in which seep out my fears and truths,
but the days I did not write
are the most fearful of all
as they drill against my spirit
and yell, “how could you!?”
as if in tremendous pain my knees shatter
and my joints pummel the floor
like a sickly knock to the otherworld.
…
there’s an answer like a heartbeat, but not.
What is it… what is it?
Perhaps the days I did not write
are trapped back there,
wanting just a breath to soothe them.
Well, this poem is for those days,
but I’m afraid it just won’t do.
