I have always been one for New Years Resolutions, and this year was no different. While the first three are relatively simple and easy to accomplish (stop and smell the roses; do yoga at least once a week; and shut the fuck up), the fourth one seemed daunting: create one piece of art and write one poem every month. The poem didn’t scare me as much as the art did. About a hundred years ago when I went to art school, it beat the creativity right out of me. It made what I used to love doing for fun into a job – a job I was terrible at, according to fellow students and puff-chested professors.
Art school was not the place for unbridled creativity – at least not in the graphic design department – and it’s been hard for me to shake that mindset. Not to mention the tiny children who eat up my time and attention, along with all the other tedious tasks of adulthood, leaving me drained during the moments of quiet I get. I would much rather sit on my ass and stare at my phone like a slack-jawed yokel than do something worthwhile.
With that in mind, I decided the amazing, magical tree in my backyard would serve as my muse if I was hard up for an idea. For the first half of the month, I stared at it every time I stepped outside, but nothing happened. I forced myself not to panic, and to be patient.
One morning, I began to vomit a poem. Forgive me for the crude description, but good poems are often sudden and unstoppable, and vomit is the word that keeps rising (pun fully intended). I got it all down on the paper and then closed it, unable to look at what I wrote for fear it was any “good.”
Once the poem came out, the painting was there. Some quick watercolor sessions left me feeling energized and enough. What I managed to get down on the paper – both words and brush strokes – was something I felt proud of. It’s been awhile since I felt that way.
I’m sharing both here as a way to keep myself accountable. The poem is untitled, and follows below.
Bury me in solace
in revulsion
in misunderstanding
Cover my eyelids
so I can’t spy
Blanket of insecurity
Blanket of mistrust
Lonely fingers mourning
what hasn’t been
A corpse preserved
for amusement
Glistening in a deadly field
Buried by the weight
of my fantasy
Enamored by my disdain
I lay upon the frozen field
Bury me
Bury me in a fragile, soft tomb
to join the world
unaffected
Consumed
The Need to Be Clever 