Tongue Tied

I am having a difficult time with poetry lately. I have not been in the headspace to write poems. I also have not been hitting emotionally intense moments. This is strange given that (a) I am so emo, and (b) I'm entering a new phase of life, and (c) there's a messed up political situation back home. I experienced a lot of anxiety (and some lows) a few weeks back, but for some reason, it subsided. I somehow must have blocked all of it. And I'm feeling mighty weird about it, especially with regards to what's going on back home. I feel obliged to write about all the horrible things that are happening in Iran right now. But for some reason, I just can't go there. Maybe it's a survival mechanism; maybe my body and spirit can't deal with any of it. Or maybe it's just the privilege of distance, of being able to go about my daily business because I simply can. Perhaps it's a complicated combination of a lot of things. But I'm feeling a lot of guilt as a result. I'm also feeling inept. And I've become completely tongue tied.

But maybe that's not all true. Because I'm writing about it now. Maybe this post some kind of opening, to allow myself to write through the emotional block. I'm thinking it is. Or hoping so.

I'm also realizing that writing poetry entails me to be in a particular headspace that isn't always the "best" place for me to be. And when I'm there, I tend to get caught up. And it's more than mere emotions; my spirit feels heavy, as does my body. So I'm trying to figure out a way to allow myself the space and time for those intense moments; to learn to write and not get caught up. But I don't know if this is possible. I don't know if I could easily tap in and out of those kinds of intensities.

In the meanwhile, I'm going to keep trying.

Abstractions

you touch my face. it's strange how i don't flinch. instead, i let go, and feel every inch of my body sink into the mattress. for the first time in weeks, i am present. here. this moment wrapping itself around me in a familiar way. because i had seen you, many months ago, long before i knew you. i had seen you in my mind. not as an idea, not an image. you were much more; some kind of real/not real. so many times i saw you standing in front of me, the crease in your shirt, the ink on your forearms, your open palms. i move your hand away from my face, feel the ridges on your nails, touch each finger tip with mine. i trace the deep lines in your palm, and kiss it. i close my eyes, and i breathe. i am here. you are still here. lying next to me, smoothing my hair. i place my hand over yours, and I tell you to grab my hair.
pull hard, love. i want to know you are real.

I am never dating emo artists again.

Words to live by.

My name is Pomegranate Queen, and I’m a recovering emo-dater. I’m also a self-identifying emo. I can tell you from experience that two emo’s don’t make a right. What they do is create a whole lot of unnecessary drama. Agony is not a beautiful thing. Neither is bad poetry.

This year has been intense. Too many planetary retrogrades. Too much resurfacing trauma. Too much processing that went along with it. And a whole lot of guilt. Perspective ceases to exist when you’re drowning in a pool of self-deprecation. It leads to more guilt, which then translates into more angst. And more bad poetry. The quintessential cycle of emo-dom.

Please don’t take my sardonic tone as anything but my need to make light of a serious issue that has serious effects on people in my life, including myself. They call us emo; I say we have been blessed with the ability to hit the most intense of emotions. We experience life in the most extreme way, for better or worse. Many of us live through art; writing, painting, dancing those very emotions that take us to the most beautiful and euphoric of places, and also to shit holes. Because with such gifts come emotional cyclones. But after every storm the sky clears, eventually.

So what have my 31 years of emo-ness taught me? To never fall in love with another emo. Easier said than done. But what my fellow emos need to realize is that when the ground beneath you starts to shake, when you begin tripping all over yourself, you need someone who can ground you. Someone who, despite not knowing what you’re going through, has the intuition and understanding to let you trip, but is there to catch you before you smash your face into the pavement.

But alas. We can’t help who we fall in love with. That’s just part of being emo, I suppose. Depressing thought? I’m off to write a poem about it.

Transience
(vignette 1)

He is lying on his bed with the cell phone next to him. It rings a final time. He knows she will call again. And he will continue avoiding her. He sits up and looks at the pile of paper on his desk. His room is cluttered with books and clothes. And paper. Lots of paper. The deadline for the next issue is in a few days and he has not been able to focus. He told the editor he would get the piece in last minute. He walks over and sits at his desk. Stares at the computer screen, at her email from last night: I’m going to hurt myself. He gets up and walks over to his bed. Takes the phone and shuts it off. Then he realizes how hungry he is, and makes his way to the kitchen to get some food.

***

I have felt darkness. It burned my skin, melting flesh and muscle, charring my bones through. I dissolved into myself, like lava. I flowed thick. Over my bed, unto the floor, into every crevice of this old place. I flowed down the stairs and out the front door. Unto pavement and down the street. Across town. To find you.

***

In this love you are like a knife with which I explore myself.
Kafka (letter to Milena Jesenska, 14 September, 1920)