Because it’s National Poetry Month, here’s a random poem that I wrote (technically rewrote) way back on June 6, 2009.
When He Comes Home
Every time night falls, I hear the sun
trapped and screaming beneath a layer of cloud,
filling the air with droplet tears.
This air is hard to breathe.
Every time night turns a wolfish face
twoard me and lowers the volume on
the sun’s constant scream beneath clouds,
I meet him and he suffocates me.
When I get the parts together again,
no – it’s not the end –
I hear him breathe over telephone and
scream over the static-cloud like he is a sun,
a son of sleep.
Down he falls, out of work clothes
into a solemnity,
of the comfort in screaming.
Every time my ears eyes body shatter with the
scream, with the sun, I remind him
I am the only flower standing through many fields
of broken-hymen weeds, so
does it make me holier than thou
or even she, or even holier than sleep
that brings him, dream-reposed
into a state where he cannot contemplate
or get angered over this.
Sleep is a sprinkle from the stars,
a release from virgin legs that burn a brand into him,
and I imagine
this manboy thing he is who
loves and laughs, but never grows – no.
I fall, dream-disturbed –
and wait for him to leave me alone
in the land of dreams.
Oh, the moon –
the eclipse that never comes around
to eat the stars, to wake him up.
He saddens me, his scream is as brilliant as many suns,
so brilliant I don’t have to hear it.
Oh, the scream
that blows out hearing
and ohmygod I can see it,
the yawning scream,
the flowers of his eyes that bleed from sleep,
that fade into wolf’s den of night
Dream-reposed, he crushes me with
static-clouds of breathing like anvils,
and oh, the wolfish night, the coming stars,
the moon never changing…
here is the sun, and here is purity.
Swallowed like a flower
in the mouth
of a scream I can see.
I don’t think it makes very much sense at all, now that I read it back. But I wrote it because, at the time, I had an array of images in my head that I thought would fit together in an interesting way.
When I write poems, I don’t think too much about what they’re about or what the theme behind the poem is. One time, I was in poetry class at college and the class was critiquing a poem I had written. Nobody could figure out what it was about, and the embarrassing part was that I had no idea what it was about either. (Eventually, we decided it was about a greenhouse.) To me, a poem is about the beauty of images, and not so much about how those images fit together to create a whole. Poems are always subject to interpretation, so what one gets out of the images is not what another person will interpret – and that’s what makes poetry a unique art form.