Tuesday, September 1, 2015
It's Me Again...
by Jacqueline Dash
I who wanted to talk
of a time inside my soul
that is always my poem-in-progress,
have found only myself whenever I looked
and missed the real happening.
With wary good faith
I opened myself to the wind, the lockers, clothes-closets, graveyards,
the calendar months of the year,
and in every opening crevice
my face looked back at me.
The more bored I became
with my unacceptable person,
the more I returned to the theme of my person;
worst of all,
I kept painting myself to myself
in the midst of a happening.
What an idiot (I said to myself
a thousand times over) to perfect all that craft
of description and describe only myself,
as though I had nothing to show but my head,
nothing better to tell than the mistake of a lifetime.
I read this poem as a certain looking inside one's self.
The author ruminates, almost obsesses, the idea that most of her poetry ultimately ends up being written about herself. The plight resonates with me. Many times I've carried my muse to the page...and written with fervor...only later to analyze that my subject matter was, indeed, myself.
I believe if one painted, literally painted, pictures of themselves over and over...perhaps they could properly be deemed an narcissist. Writing, though, is something altogether different. The words we bring forth...the analysis, the observations and memories...they are personal. They come from inside us. And so I believe it is just and accurate that we find ourselves inside them too.
I always feel as if I go inside myself before I write. There are whole worlds inside of me...I bring bits and pieces of those far-away destinations to the page each time I write.
This poem reminded me of myself in the agonizing that perhaps my poetry is too personal. And then I have to remind myself that this is the way we relate to one another, the way galaxies are closed between us...being real, sharing stories, intertwining lives, remembering ourselves and each other...living other lives...in the pauses of spaces between the words we write.