Thursday, January 8, 2009

The Lava Field, Freedom

Here is one exploration of anger. I don't know. It's just a poem. Back in the fourth grade I was hot like this. My parents had forced me into a situation that made me look ridiculous and then they laughed. They were trying to bust me out of a behavior they were tired of. That worked. But I was so angry and so unable to express it that things changed inside. It took a long time for me to understand what had happened. In the meantime, when I was teenaged, I made life really tough for them and a little later for me. For many years now, I have known that what they had done to me was teach me to hate. I didn't even know what hate was before that and didn't know what it was that changed when it did. But hate is what it was. I have never been fond of object lesson manipulations ever for any reason ever since I have understood that price. It is certainly not what my parents wanted. There is always a wildcard. I am sure they would not have done it had they known the price I would pay, and then pay back.

But hey. This is just a poem, not really about that, probably.

The Lava Field

I was angry once,
So hot that my hope melted
And flowed down my sides.

I am deformed, bent like that.

I have held still for so long
That dreams have begun
To form on my ruined hope,
On you in my life.


I'm going to reflect on writing poetry from time to time. I have to. I am trying to figure out what the effing hell I am doing here. It hasn't stopped, this push to get the poems out. I thought I was going to break training today, but nope, at the end of it I had my two poems. I have promised myself as a spiritual discipline, or so I say, that I will emulate Hafiz (who wrote longer ones generally, at least one a day) and since they are short, I will write two. But why? All of a sudden last August this happened to me...I said this is the form and it's variations. I should be able to knock these things out in a few minutes, let's go! There have been poems that take longer. I also edit at post time when I decide that the words or the rhythms tweak me. Doesn't usually take too much longer. I'm a flipping poetry cartoonist. God made me do it:) So now I've caught his heel and I'm not letting go until he hollers. The only answer so far is I'm running out of time. But I don't think I really believe that, not in any special singled out way.


Writing poems is
Taking on the other skin,
The other odd life
Where I am you or you or
A bug-eyed field of long corn
Or stranger than that.

It is being free to roam
All the roads I find.


  1. I really like the second piece. It's exactly right. That's just what writing poems is...well, for me at any rate.

  2. It was you the first time. :)

    Poems are many things I think. Thanks for your comment.

  3. Hi Christopher... Thank you for stopping by Broken Mannequin. I really enjoyed the poems in this post, especially The Lava Field.

    I added your blog to my blogroll; I hope that's okay. I'd like to come back to read more!

    Nice to meet you.

  4. Charli, It's just fine. I hoped you would decide to visit. The Lava Field is one of my best, I think. I hope others are too, that I bounce against my ceiling often. That's how it grows. I am looking for poets. I found one in you.

    I hope you will accept what happens sometimes. I write most of these poems in the comment sections of other blogs. So I might write one in yours.


The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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