BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,

Well, isn't THAT amazing?

Two days, two poems ... considering that my output has been a poem a month or less for the past year or so, this is a notable occasion! Of course, it also points to the nature of my days. Poems get written when a) I've got a spare half hour or so, b) I'm away from home (computers & books), and c) I'm essentially alone (other riders on the subway or patrons in the restaurant don't count). Considering that I carry around my ittybitty notebook with me constantly (well, whenever I leave the house), it indicates that I have very little "downtime" of this sort for months on end. I, unfortunately, don't write well when there are other distractions, active or potential, around ... which means that I almost never pick up a pen when I have a book at hand, or the computer.

Of course, I'm not particularly enthused by the poems themselves of late, but I suppose that half-lame poems are better than no poems at all. As I've noted, I would really like to get back into writing the way I used to, but I suspect that this will be a function of my getting back into a JOB, as the scheduling structure of being employed lends the definable bits and pieces of time that can then be assigned as "poem writing time" (such as when I was at Chubb and the bus-in/bus-out time plus breaks let me write, or back at MTC when the office-is-closed-but-we're-still-here time leant itself to almost daily poem writing). Oh, well ... anyway, here's what spewed out last night in the hour between dropping Daughter #1 off for her play, and the opening curtain:

                    BLACK BEYOND NIGHT

                    spun away,
                    set apart,
                    our wildness
                    turns deviant,
                    we break from ruts
                    into zones
                    outside of habit
                    without a guide
                    we ache frustration
                    wishing to know joy,
                    hoping to have hope
                    be not a bitter thing,
                    but the world
                    is crueller still
                    and warps all feeling
                    into the pit
                    no vectors lead
                    out of this place,
                    we have crossed horizons
                    into crushing zones
                    where no good is
                    and all declines
                    tighter, darker,
                    black beyond night
                    the outer madness
                    of mundane things
                    twisted into lies
                    confounds the senses,
                    perverting all
                    to the extent
                    where insanity won't free
                    us from these chains
                    stasis dislocates
                    the nexus of regret
                    in bearing so much loss
                    and eviscerating pain,
                    every facet of existence
                    amplifies the angst,
                    no options are remaining
                    beyond incessant tears

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2004 by Brendan Tripp


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