Reaching Through The Storm

Have you ever been in the eye
Of a hurricane?
I rode out six typhoons
In my first month in Japan.
Right now, I feel like its eye,
As chaos sweeps through this school.
Teachers bluster and dash.
Rampaging hordes of kids abound.
Distant smashes and thunderous roars
Of the Deputy Headmaster.

Personally I have no idea,
About what's happened,
But, I bet I know who started it:
Tomoki AKA Little Johnny.

I wish I was in the eye right now,
Instead of being tossed about.
Not knowing,
Where the wind will dash me,
Or if this storm will subside at all.

(we should turn this into a poem)

(A mighty poem it would be.
One to rival the Aeneid in grandeur.)

"Events, dear boy Events,"
Harold Macmillan once said.

Two people dwelt alone,
Apart, and bereft
Of context
To make sense of their lives.
Ignorance is bliss,
However, what bliss is there
To be found
In the tossing winds of events,
When ignorant of their details?

The details,
Will only yield
The blistering of my heart.

The heart,
That has long forgotten
What it means to be sad.
So you, I envy,
As you rest in the eye of the storm.

Rest or rot.
Contemplating my Gordian knot.
Yet, not wholly ignorant
Of the prevailing winds
And the tearing hearts they contain.

Frustrated,
I reach out to touch,
caress and make well.
Yet, all there is,
Is distance and embers whipping by.

Frustrated, you must not be
In your attempts to caress me.
My heart has gotten numb
And my eyes blinded with debris.
Instead, like Penelope,
You must sit and sew,
Until the storm sets me free.

I shall disguise myself,
Behind beard and dregs,
To ward off the most ardent
Of admirers.

So drastic my metamorphosis,
That my own kith
Shall not recognise me,
As you return
From slaying your one-eyed giant.

By which time,
I�d have made a knitted a jumper,
From that knot to warm thee.

Grateful will I be,
If you have not forgotten me.
Now, I must contemplate,
Upon the tactics
I will employ to defeat my foe.

But, be not dismayed,
Cause in my heart,
You will be,
As I toss,
And I turn,
In the palm of the enemy.

Cold hands,
Purpling fingers,
Twitch and type
Our hurricane bound odyssey
To nether realms of breaking hearts.
Torn up,
Like stars near a black hole.

The tender most of touches,
Blanket warmed comfort
And flashing pens.
Aching tales crumple the sheets,
Ending in resolution and spilt ink.

Reviews

[Emily B]

This is beautiful. Not all adventures are long ago or far away. Sometimes they are hurricanes or probably kids or loved ones far away. I enjoyed the classical references. They lent a certain distinction to your adventure.