Filed under: poems, Uncategorized | Tags: birds, fly, life, Poem, Poems, Poetry, rush hour traffic, struggling, traffic poetry, writing
I was driving into work one morning in May of 2010 (I can’t remember exactly). I was on the highway, sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic as it rained mightily. I was by myself in the car. I was stopped on a bridge crossing over the Credit River in Mississauga, ON. The winds were kicking strong gusts. I saw a bird, to my right, trying to fly over the bridge. It was flying low, probably less than 10ft above the vehicles, and it was having an incredibly hard time. For every bit of progress made, it was pushed back even farther. But it kept pushing. It kept pushing. Until it finally made it across. That bird and its struggle stayed with me. I got to work and immediately wrote this. I can always relate to this.
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a bird struggling to fly
a bird struggling to fly
he knows how to
but he forgets sometimes
his wings flap. they push
they pull with intention
but all for naught
the wind is too strong today
blowing away from his destination
his neck bows and protrudes
gyrating like a sound wave
forcing his body into
an awkward vertical angle
his webbed feet
are like two stop signs
spread open and flat
against the wind
his body is
wrapped in desperation
his wings never fully
spread outward today
his neck is on a chopping block
as the wind and the rain
act as an invisible force
holding him back
a bird struggling to fly
that is me up there
I know how to
but I forget sometimes
and I stop myself
time and time again
putting my neck on the line
spreading my arms thin
panting for air
but for me there is no wind
there is neither rain
only my own devices
my stop sign hands
my awkward posturing
and I flap and I flap
and I push and I push
myself down myself down
but I will fly I will fly
one of these days
when I unlearn
how to hurt myself
that’s why when I see
a bird struggling to fly
across six lanes
of rush hour traffic
I see myself
crossing my own path
…yet again
Filed under: poems, Uncategorized | Tags: Poem, Poems, Poetry, writing, writing prompt
My friend Cathy Charlie Petch will post writing prompts to keep the creative juices flowing. I occasionally participate. I should more often, and I’m working on writing more.
Yesterday she posted a Puscifer song that I could not resist. Here is the song and my unedited work inspired from it.
I hold something in my hand.
It drifts. It disassembles. Falls apart.
Turns to dust before my eyes.
I hold onto things too tightly.
Grip them to the chest.
Though I know better,
I hold on tight.
The way children hold onto stuffed animals.
The way they squeeze the necks of pets.
Out of pure adoration and love.
Without realizing they are choking the life
out of the very thing they love.
I’ve never out grown this in a way.
Grip tightly, slip through your fingers.
Leave me something beautiful in your wake.
Leave me a memory to behold.
To cherish and fathom.
I hold the breath of the universe in my lungs.
It is both invigorating and suffocating.
On the inside and outside.
I believe that there is more to life
than punching clocks and watching shows.
More meaning than watching
moving pictures on a screen.
More than books even.
Ingesting other people’s art and imagination
is a beautiful experience.
But what of the light
Reflecting in fractals through the atmosphere?
What of the oxygen entering our lungs.
The trees dancing in the sky.
The way our pores raise
when something grazes against
the deepest corners of our spirit.
The way our skin tightens
when we feel something
that cannot be quantified
by numbers or words or paper.
The impossible task of
capturing human experience.
As artists, we try to capture the impossible.
I keep a journal of these experiences
logged in my chest.
I close my eyes sometimes
and try to relive them.
The touch of her lips
on the side of my neck.
The first time my son wrapped
his tiny fingers around my index finger.
When my daughter stared
into my eyes for the first time.
The moment when you embrace
a loved one after a prolonged absence.
The way nature speaks to the soul.
I try to put words to the impossible.
To hold onto these fleeting moments.
So I press my fingertips
into the palms of my hands
in the hope that it will stay.
But it slips. It fades.
What remains is an imprint inside of me.
Never lost, always present.
Altered and existing in a different light.
The way it was always intended.
Filed under: the ether, the mirror, Uncategorized | Tags: performance poetry, performing, Poetry, poetry slam, purpose, spoken word, writers block, writing
A few years ago I was doing some solo grocery shopping at Fresh Co. I was in a hurry, in the zone wearing track pants and trying to grab some orange juice get home quickly. A lady walking with her daughter saw me and slowed down. She paused, half-tilted her head and grinned. She said “you’re a poet right?” I hadn’t performed in a couple of years and had all-but-forgotten about that part of my life. I said “yes, yes I am.” She said she saw me feature at Guelph Poetry Slam in November of the previous year (that was even almost 2yrs removed from performing) and loved my work. She said she bought both of my books and keeps them in her car. It left me feeling perplexed and very good. Wow, my words touched someone.
Last week I was at Starbucks ordering the closest I can get to fancy there, a Grande Americano. The cashier asked my name “Yogi, Y-O-G-I”. She paused, looked up and said “do you do spoken word?” I said “I used to.” Turns out, she used to manage a bar/restaurant where I used to perform at a lot in 2012. She knew my work pretty well. She asked me why I’d stopped. Truth be told, I put it down to focus on being a present father with my little ones. She paused again, “you were good, I remember. You should do it again.” I showed her my journal in hand and said I was working on it. It left me feeling confused. I actually said I used to. WTF? When did that happen?
Something happened in the years I stopped performing. I went through a few years of writer’s block. But I’ve gotten past that. In the last year I’ve been writing a lot, lot more. I’m not finishing anything, but I’m writing nonetheless. Good ideas, good wordplay. I’m getting back in the groove. I was in a really good place in 2012 when I stopped. I felt more comfortable on stage than I ever had before. I was churning out more new, quality poems. My stage voice had found legs to stands on and wings to fly with. But I wanted to be present and accounted for during bath time, story time, good night kisses and late night snuggles. I wanted to be there for it all and I didn’t wanna miss a thing. Spoken word/Poetry slam have been around for a while, it’ll be fine without me. It’ll welcome me back when I’m ready too.
What happened in the meantime was cynicism. It was skepticism. I began to wonder if words can ever really have an impact. Why bother? What legacy do these poems and performances really have? What are we really leaving behind? I still sit and wonder about it. You stand up for 3 minutes and 10 seconds, speak your truth and bare your soul and make some noise for a round of applause, some pats on the back, some much-needed personal release and that’s about it. It began to feel like it was just spinning wheels, like an exercise for the ego. Are we really awakening minds, or are we just another passing phase? Does what you say stick with someone when they wake up in the morning? I’ve been questioning the purpose and reason behind this spoken word thing for a while now and it began to make me jaded.
But then the universe had me cross paths with someone like I did that day at Starbucks or Fresh Co. Someone reminds me, hey your work really inspired me. I occasionally bump into a person who heard me speak my truth 4-6 years ago, and I’m still with them. My words uplifted them then and stayed with them. So I start to think that maybe there is some resonance. Maybe there is some staying power. Maybe there is something more to it than ego and glory and punchlines. Performing/Sharing poetry isn’t about immediate change. It’s about planting seeds. It’s about creating a spark. We may never see the tree take root or see the inferno blaze across the horizon, but it’s there. It’s a lot like karma, it takes time but it happens without fail.
Poetry, for me, has always been very personal. I never excelled at tackling “issue poetry” unless I was able to relate myself into it. Standing on that stage, just you and the microphone. Just your voice and the audience. Just your gut and their ear drums. There’s something magical about that. The butterflies. The feeling that you’re going to fall…but then you take flight. I’ve gone to a couple of poetry slams in the last couple of months on account of my wife encouraging me. She gives me gentle little pushes into it and I’m taking her queue little by little. I don’t want to make a team and compete on a national stage, but I want my voice out there again. Because I finally realized, after all this time, that I have something to say…and it’s worth hearing.