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I Write, Therefore I Live . . . Again (poem)
Spent three nights this week
Living in 1987
Immersed in both joy and sorrow
Long suppressed
Writing a novel
Of fact made fiction
Relived a critical year
Writing of my former self
Three nights spent towards the end
At my keyboard
Not my bed
Until 8:00 a.m. and 10:00 a.m.
Then two or three hours of sleep
And back to weaving again
A renewed tapestry
From frayed and broken threads
The heart remembers
What the mind would hide
Old wounds thought healed
Begin to bleed again
What is broken Is yet mended
Forged in the white-hot fire
Of sweet remembrance
Tempered by tears that can still flow
The novel's done
Reopened cuts begin to heal
And scabs reform anew
Leaving new scars to fade in time
The editing process begins
The mind takes over from the heart
The ghosts return to their cold graves
Their temporary lives expired
Closed doors pried open
Now shut once more
And green paths not taken
Once again turn brown
But oh the sweet ephemeral joy
And deepest sorrow
Of the dead past come alive again
If only for a time to ponder what might have been
Living in 1987
Immersed in both joy and sorrow
Long suppressed
Writing a novel
Of fact made fiction
Relived a critical year
Writing of my former self
Three nights spent towards the end
At my keyboard
Not my bed
Until 8:00 a.m. and 10:00 a.m.
Then two or three hours of sleep
And back to weaving again
A renewed tapestry
From frayed and broken threads
The heart remembers
What the mind would hide
Old wounds thought healed
Begin to bleed again
What is broken Is yet mended
Forged in the white-hot fire
Of sweet remembrance
Tempered by tears that can still flow
The novel's done
Reopened cuts begin to heal
And scabs reform anew
Leaving new scars to fade in time
The editing process begins
The mind takes over from the heart
The ghosts return to their cold graves
Their temporary lives expired
Closed doors pried open
Now shut once more
And green paths not taken
Once again turn brown
But oh the sweet ephemeral joy
And deepest sorrow
Of the dead past come alive again
If only for a time to ponder what might have been
Published 28th Jun 2024
Author's Note
This is a free-verse poem about the unexpectedly strong emotions dredged up in my writing my first novel during the pandemic. A lightly fictionalized version of my experiences in my first academic posting out of law school called up ghosts thought long buried and resulted in marathon writing sessions of nearly stream of consciousness that flowed from my keyboard as fast as I could type in weeks of all-night sessions writing sessions
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Anonymous
- Edited 19th Dec 2024 5:45pm
29th Jun 2024 4:28am
<< post removed >>
29th Jun 2024 6:35pm
Good question, my friend. Writing can be a cathartic experience that often teaches us lessons we may not be willing or able to grasp at the conscious level. But to your point about the scary element, it can also drive us closer to the cliff to oblivion if it dredges up powerful emotions, regrets, mistakes, lost opportunities, or a myriad of other issues that are perhaps best left buried when they have no useful resolution.
I was a already young old man at the age of 18. That has both good and bad elements to it. With age wisdom may or may not come, but nostalgia inevitably does. I knew before I started that writing a novel writing in autobiographical truth much more than in fiction would produce a personal emotional response. But I did not anticipate its full effect. Perhaps the isolation during the pandemic heightened this effect, but it still drawn me in on re-reading my own work three years later--one reason I have not yet made all the needed corrections that escaped my editing effort back then. Few have or will read the finished work, but I'm glad I wrote it even if literally no one read it.
Thanks for your feedback and analysis. I really appreciate it.
I was a already young old man at the age of 18. That has both good and bad elements to it. With age wisdom may or may not come, but nostalgia inevitably does. I knew before I started that writing a novel writing in autobiographical truth much more than in fiction would produce a personal emotional response. But I did not anticipate its full effect. Perhaps the isolation during the pandemic heightened this effect, but it still drawn me in on re-reading my own work three years later--one reason I have not yet made all the needed corrections that escaped my editing effort back then. Few have or will read the finished work, but I'm glad I wrote it even if literally no one read it.
Thanks for your feedback and analysis. I really appreciate it.
30th Jun 2024 1:00am
Which came first: the chicken or the egg?
...
Which came first: the *bridge* or the *abyss*?
Poetry like a drone hovering over the spans...
Nice work... ... 😍👍
...
Which came first: the *bridge* or the *abyss*?
Poetry like a drone hovering over the spans...
Nice work... ... 😍👍
30th Jun 2024 4:01am
1st Jul 2024 00:24am
