Here lies a confessional piece. I wrote it last year sometime to commemorate an epoch of literal powerlessness in my life. Before I wrote this poem (as indicated in the first two lines) I had written very little in the way of direct acknowledgment of my on again off again struggle with incapacitation. Since I wrote this poem, I have written more freely (at times more pathetically--allowing myself the occasional wail of self-pity) of my tenebrous condition.
Because such poems are practically and rightfully poor stuff for at-large publication, my little blog here makes for a decent outlet.
The Playground
I have not said enough of the bed
Or the five weeks I spent there
Daily funneling through the slender
Middle of an hourglass
until the end when all of me
Had settled in the bottom.
Five weeks and I’ve only a few lines
To show for it. The comforter—ha!—
Was red, faded from use and ultraviolet
Rays. Windows are crap for stopping
Light and no great conquerors
Of playground sounds either.
Children slide, sling gravel, sing.
Songs of their own invention.
Swing.
The great triumph of some days—
Crawling to the bathroom; the white
Flag of most days—pissing in a bottle.
Family bought CDs of jokes, L’Amour,
Music interposed on lapping waves.
For calmness. For calmness slows
Funneling grit. That was the theory.
At last, I lost my mind. Five weeks
Finding shapes in the ceiling:
Horses, mostly, horses on a carousel
Without poles, without children—
They were all outside in gambols.
Children slide, sling gravel, sing.
Songs of their own invention.
Swing.
What else? It’s important
To be forthright. As I gathered
At the bottom, pinned by the Wrestler,
Watching my million grains cascade
Upon me. Me in the third person—
Out of body because in of it reeks
Of sweat, fear, the last several meals
And unwashed armpits. To be forthright.
It’s important. What else? Envy.
Sadness. Radish-bitter daydreams,
This one of many: Me in a tree,
Limbs like a ladder, up and up.
Children slide, sling gravel, sing.
Songs of their own invention.
Swing.
Sometimes, I sang. I’ve written
Hundreds of songs but none
Of them came to mind. I sang the hymns
Of my youth. God on a horse
On the ceiling, me and the comforter—
Faded, stitched together; it cannot
Budge beneath me, I cannot rise
Above it, we are each others’ jailer.
No bars. Just keys. Jangling
From the ceiling. Do I remember
Any psalms? The twenty-third, is all.
It’s enough. For an hour. Then not even close.
Children slide, sling gravel, sing.
Songs of their own invention.
Swing.
