Cave Walls

What I see and write

are not the same things.

I simply stare at a blank page

hoping to see embossed words

I can trace into a work of art.

Instead, I manufacture epic leaning-tower

scenes from the tiny pebbles of my life;

unstable truths about who I am.

 

And when a piece finally comes

splashing across the page

it's not without poetic triage,

the selection of unyielding

or wasting sound; the sorting

of which words utter or falter.

 

I think about all my other poems

crushed into little balls;

about the ring of the trashcan

as I join my fingers around this verse.

I toss it and it bounces off the rim,

coming to rest at my feet.

Should I look at it again?

 

Gently I unscrew the crumpled paper,

knead it against the desk and smear

the drying ink into incoherency but,

a faint picture remains.  I realize

paper represents a cave wall;

this poem is just a tracing of my

hand someone will find someday.

 

What might be said of me?

What conclusion will be drawn?

Everyone leaves behind a story

others will recount.

It is through those future storytellers

that we truly begin living.

Reviews

[Toni Prehoda Kahler]

I read this three times straight through, wanting to feel it again and agian, curious as to why it grabbed me so hard. First, I enjoyed the image of poetic triage. I come from an RN background and enjoyed widening triage to include words, but the essence lives in your 3rd stanza. Not only does it take me right up close, so I can see it new (yeah, thanks!) through you, but I get to see the poem with its own will to live, with something you never noticed sparking it right to your feet! The last lines are strong because you write with surity: "This poem is a survivor" but then you ask a question that creates a mystery (will you let it live?) Don't add anything...I like to imagine for myself what you might do, or what might happen. (it reminds me of my own struggle to let the words speak, to release control and let rip) I like the tension you create between the poem surviving and your hesitation over its life. So....you manipulate, you play at truth, you tinker and, godlike, say which words live or die...but then....wait....the poem has a life (voice) of its own....and will you let it speak?

[Greg Close]

Great allegory! Loved it. Having just spent hours digging through boxes of twenty year old scribbles, writings, and pictures, it really rings true. We are all busy sketching out little narratives whether we realize it or not. Well done!

[abejoyal]

I really like this and while I found it to be more of a prosaic essay type thing, it embraces the medium of poetry better than i would have expected. Excellent work.