Listen

This is sort of poetry and prose mixed together. I wrote this for all of you lovely writers who might be feeling a bit like I am right now, so I hope you enjoy!

"My heart and lungs

Are like songbirds in a cage,

Compressed so they

Can no longer function,

Weighed down by

The poison in the air

And in my blood.

Break my ribs and set them free.

Set me free."

 

I set down my pen. Poetry comes easily

to me but today I am stuck. That

terrible, gnawing feeling in the pit of

my stomach is back, the one that seems

to say to me, "Your words are useless,

you can never truly express the

complexity of emotion through

something as imperfect as words. You

were never very good with words

anyway."

 

There it is, the truth. Words and I have

A complex relationship. Most say I use

them well because they do not know

better. They think that I have mastered this,

that these combinations of letters serve

me like a goddess.

 

They are quite mistaken, for I am

powerless against them. Words are a

mystery to be left unsolved. They are

my only useful tool.

 

I cannot speak, I write because I have

time to ease the words into a

cooperating mood. The voice is hard,

cutting and swift. There is little time to
craft something beautiful from it when

our imperfect human mouths

spontaneously spew whatever thoughts

make it to the threshold of our minds.

 

Though all these things are true, all I

really wish is for someone to listen.

Listen to only what is important. Do not

bother your ears with my voice, because

my voice is flawed. My voice is cruel,

and will hurt you , and will tell you

things that will lead you far from what

I am really trying to convey.

 

No, all I wish is for you to listen to my

written words. Though your ears my

not hear much but the scratching of a

pen, I hope for your soul to hear my
masterpiece, this symphony of only

half-conveyed thoughts.

 

I wish for you to listen to my songbirds

as well. Hear my heart beat softly like a

pulsing flame, and hear the wind

whistle through the echoing caverns in

my lungs. This is the sound of life, and it

is in the trees and the water and

the earth as well. This is what perfect

words sound like. Nature has

learned to speak perfectly. We could

learn too, if only we could stop and

listen...

 

And so I write:

"Listen, there are songbirds,

I assure you.

One is drumming along,

His beat muffled by human flesh,

And the others are whistling while

There is still air for them.

Can you not hear?

Unlock the cage,

Oh, break my ribs and set them free

Oh, set me free.

Then they will fly from my

Bloodied chest,

And their song will be clear.

I will listen

And learn to sing this

Bittersweet melody too."

Author's Note

Written November 14, 2014

Reviews

[SuspectGray]

Just a quick edit...in the line "Though your ears my not heart much but the scratching of a pen" I believe you mean "Though your ears may not hear much but the scratching of a pen"

I enjoyed this introspective on writing poetry. I have tried to capture the process myself at times. Yes words betray us...but they are all we have.

[Nadia Gerassimenko]

This is very clever! You combined prose and poetry together with such graceful faultlessness! The poem reads as a prose with a beautiful rhythm of a poem.

I often feel that Mother Nature speaks to us with flawless beauty. I always wonder if I could ever mimic her and her heavenly creatures in my own words. Especially when I am trying to convey an emotion so deep and fervent in my heart. It's too hard. And most of all harder if I think too much about it.

[Zita Nonie Hasenkamp]

Thank you so much for your kind words! I feel that all poets eventually feel this burning passion but cannot find the means to convey it as meaningfully as it deserves, but the rare moments, where one can seem to find just the right things to say, are priceless.