Consolation

Too much, too many, a waterfall of little transparent beads, spheres, marbles not made of earth or clay or stone, solid until you touch them

As they are to your eyes, such are thoughts to your mind, until words and letters, print and syllables, catch them, grasp them, carry them out into the world like spirits made children through a woman's body

And yet so many pass you by, so many little beads fall silently into oblivion, to the endless depths of the darkness of your mind, where the waterfall scatters them, shatters them, and turns them into a slow-flowing river, silent, vast, persistent

That short moment they pass before you, though, and you know that they are there although your eyes cannot see them, although all you see is the strength and might of the waterfall -

- that is the only moment they have anything in common with emotion.

A shadow passing silently over endless fields, the spread wings of an enormous, invisible creature blocking out the sun, that is what emotions are

Sometimes passing so swiftly you never knew it was there, like a whale passing you beneath the sea unnoticed, or sometimes covering the entire lands in shadow until it is the only thing on your mind

Waterfalls fall in the shadow of this creature the same as grass and stone and sea does, and the many tiny little beads, both the ones caught and the ones forgotten, seem insignificant -

but it is not the shadow that sustains us, or the world around us. It is the sun it blocks out, and it is the water.

Proper

Been reading that old Swedish book again. It makes my head come up with verses in old Swedish, which is by the way much much more fun than modern Swedish. Here's a poem/riddle:

Skulle ni av någon anledning stå utan sällskap

skall jag alltid finnas vid eder sida

till tröst.

Och den enda gång jag skall lämna eder 

voro då ni befinner eder i goda vänners sällskap

ty ingenting missunnar jag eder

Too easy, I think, so perhaps more of a poem. 

Behind blue eyes

It's difficult being angry. Logic very easily picks anger apart, and makes you see how ineffective it is, and points out all the little things that make the anger silly. Justified, righteous anger is something terrible, an unstoppable force. But anger is very, very seldom justified and righteous. Nobody is innocent, nobody is perfect. So anger melts away and hides in a shadowy corner, beaten like a dog for its rashness, with the many lessons of compassion and respect and understanding wielded as weapons leaving deep, ugly scars on its skin. There it waits, rests. Whispers simple syllables dripping of acid, watching with revenge-hungry eyes. And what was once a simple dog with a love for chasing rabbits, becomes a deformed monster with milky-white eyes, greatly enjoying the hunt, the strike, the kill. Into darkness, becoming darkness.

Can I speak of anger? Can I express anger? Can I make poems of anger? No. Do not let the beast out of its cage, compassion says to me. Do not let it bury its claws in you, respect advices. Do not trust it with anything, least of all your passion, says logic, gleefully snapping the whip of understanding. Do not let others see it. Do not let others hear of it. For that which is your greatest strength is also your greatest weakness. It has never been more true than in this case.

Leave it there, in the shadows. When the time comes that you really need it, it will strike down your foes with razor sharp claws and let you stare at them with its eyes, its strength infecting your blood. And it will be justified, it will be righteous, and it will be unstoppable.

Second-guessing.

Blogger suddenly backstabbed me with 1.5 line distance like:

this. Why? It ruins my poetry, and looks ridiculous.

But on to (now redicilously looking) poetry:

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1. The loaded anger of many little simple syllables.

Words and faces

clothes and places

brain and flesh and matter

Bulky pieces

aunts and nieces

staged fashion disaster

Comfortably numb.

Great ones snoring

small imploring

middle-men are fretting

All these choices

thought-out voices

knowingly are letting

us stay comfortably dumb.

2. A "close my eyes and write fluffy stuff" moment.

If I saw a butterfly I could imagine

that it came from far away with fateful flaps of bright blue wings

that it would land on my doorstep

and spell messages in hidden languages in the snow.

If I saw a butterfly I could imagine

that beneath its many insect eyes lay greater minds

that it would sprinkle bright blue dust upon my eyelids

and give me dreams of greater worlds.

If I saw a butterfly I could imagine

that its wings were the transformed veil of a priestess of the sky

that there were plans and life and fate behind its presence

and that would change my plans and life and fate.

It makes me wonder:

if you see a butterfly

and only see a butterfly

is it prettier than my butterfly?

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