To Exist Safely

Today at DVerse, we have prosery again. This is usually very difficult for me, so I rarely try it, but this week I want to try. 🙂 However, the given line, from Rilke, is challenging: “Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things?” – from Rainer Maria Rilke, “Heartbeat.” I am also sharing this with yesterday’s Writers’ Pantry at PSU. I usually don’t share anything other than poems, so this should be fun.


There is something inside that must be spoken, before it eats its way out of its cage inside of her mind. She tries to find the words to express her secret, but with difficulty, for she can barely get any words out without shaking. She trips over those words, like stones in her path to freedom. Even the words that escape the prison of her lips do not seem to express fully what she means to say. Sadly she realizes, “Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things?”

Continuing to tremble, as if trying to shake off the chains of the past, she hugs herself and feels the beat of her own heart in the center of her chest. It is the life inside of her, which is close and which has its own, wordless song. She takes a deep breath in and begins to speak again.

 

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Unasked, Unanswered

I never put trigger warnings in my posts, but I will for this one. TW: mental illness, suicide
This was inspired by the official NaPoWriMo prompt, which is “to write a poem that poses a series of questions” (I hope this fits) and also the Weekly Scribblings prompt about liminal space. In case you’re wondering, I actually feel better after writing this. I thought maybe I shouldn’t post, but I couldn’t resist responding to 2 prompts at once. 🙂


Continue reading

No Longer a Good Actress

I used to be able to pretend a lot better than I do now. In some ways life is better, but in other ways it is worse. At the same time, I might like myself better now than, say, in high school. A Chaucerian stanza for FOWC: Lips.


To smile with ones lips and not one’s eyes —
Underneath this mask, who can for long hide?
No longer a good actress, I reprise
This role without success, cannot abide
Nor anymore pretend, not satisfied.
Emotional, my brain tends to break down,
But I’ve no painted smile like a clown.

When Letters Come Together

Today’s official NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a poem inspired by the meaning of your name. I always thought I knew what Jenna meant (little bird), but apparently, there are more meanings. I suppose that’s a lot like my personality because I am always trying to find more meaning, delving deeper into the “why”s of existence and the intricacies of the events that happen or don’t happen… I’m rambling a bit. Another meaning, apparently, comes from Arabic, and it means “heaven.” That’s very flattering! XD It is also a variant of Jean, which means “God’s grace.” No wonder I like St. Jeanne d’Arc.

By Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres cartelfr.louvre.fr, Public Domain

Just a simple little bird
Extends to much more, by God’s grace:
Now I find more pieces,
Nuances on the map to Heaven,
Acting as refreshment for the warrior

I was going to write something fancy, but here is an acrostic for today.

Humility

For FOWC: Coach, I wrote a Chaucerian stanza today. It is important, yet sometimes difficult, to be teachable.


Humility is key to being great,
For in accepting one does not know all,
One can be taught: a coach can help create
A greater confidence where fools would fall.
To know when to oneself a novice call
Will help skills in reality to build,
No sense of hubris but with newness filled.

Ribs

When your dinner inspires a poem, you might have a problem. 🙂 However, it’s the kind of problem that I love to have. In April I have set the goal to post a poem every day, so this is the one I’ve chosen to share today.


Very messy,
Like the ribs that I’ve been eating —
Very messy
Side of life that others don’t see,
Façade behind which heart’s beating —
Recall, my dear, all hide something
Very messy.

Ecce Lignum Crucis

Behold the wood of the Cross:

How can I say, “What loss

Is ours, is mine,”

When pain and death combine

In this horrific way?

Still, we have had our fill

Of what seems supremely ill —

We all await Easter Sunday.