the word slips off my tongue
and sounds like the rushing music
of a river
or maybe a crick
Could it be an ocean
which beats with a tenacious monotony
on shores with fine gold sand?
What are you?
What is this buzzing sensation
that starts in my chest,
then rises to my throat,
making my whole body quiver with excitement
but not just excitement-
also a need, a longing
that seems to come from the soles of my feet
and rise up through my fingertips until...
A few hours ago
I wrote in the notes on my phone-
If somebody gave me a pen right now
I could captivate a moment,
embody a feeling
before they are gone
(and yes, a feeling,
which seems like a backwards firework,
sparks whizzing to meet haphazardly
in the center is a they).
I watched them-
could not distinguish if they were fireworks of feelings
Can feelings be felt outside of the body?
Are feelings within the body?
that is how feeling is
whizzing brightly towards you
sure that they will hit at any moment
that these must be fiery meteors
that they will crash into you with such...
But with such what?
In a world filled with so much whizzing and popping,
exponential popcorn bursting from one kernel
yells, whoops, cries of-was that pain?
shit, fuck, what the bloody hell Harry?
I can't understand
I can't comprehend
I'm left floating,
caught in a fragile sea of jello
caught leaning between conscious
not knowing which is below or above me
in a sort of in-between space
between physical and psychological reality.
I've never been more obstructed from the physical world
yet sure of who I am.
Feelings, ideas, thoughts
pummel toward you
illuminating the air around you
until you feel it too
burning pleasantly beneath your skin.
They are rushing, speeding
flying forward with inertia
that cannot be stopped
and you are sure
that this idea could change the world
somehow fix the world.
as suddenly as a clock reaction
with sulfuric acid and sodium thiosulfate
except almost in reverse
it is gone,
leaving but a faint outline
of the lines where it burst
leaving you puzzled, guessing.
But wose yet
is the darkness that swoops in next
but with a hint of hysteria.
If only I had had a pen...
If I had had a pen, would I understand?
As Orwell questions in 1984,
if we lose the words to express something,
do we lose the idea?
Where do thoughts go when they dissipate into darkness,
evaporate like the fireworks?
Do they vanish like photos
as they rush towards that small speck of light
tunneling down until they disappear altogether?
Because, I am a muggle
and I don't have wildfire whiz-bang fireworks...
This idea, this firework
will not linger in front of my eyes forever
remain etched on my retinas
until I can comprehend it.
Without a pen
I can't understand.
Could J.K. Rowling understand
what that feeling meant
the buzz, the light that must have burned
in her chest as in mine
before she started writing?
Where would I be
without Harry Potter?
Would Harry Potter exist if he had
only existed in that feeling?
And lastly, does Harry Potter exist?
Can a feeling, a simple burning sensation in your soul
turn into something physical?
Is poetry physical?
I'm not sure that I can
answer any of those questions
I'm not sure if anyone can.
But poetry brings us closer.
If we scramble, jump, sniff out a trail
or discover one
like a cat does in long yellow, swaying grass
we might catch something
a grasshopper perhaps
that kicks against your hands
with a tiny foot that strikes your clasped fingers impatiently
desperately spitting brown substance all over your palm
that smells slightly of soy sauce
this smell that is so intimate
but yet is so far away,
so long ago
that I can barely remember.
thoughts don't want to be caught
they wish to trickle
in hundreds of furrows of water
from our hands
right as we bring them to our faces to drink.
Our mouths are left dry,
our souls thirsty
for something they are missing
although they don't know what.
I have caught grasshoppers before
put them in a jar
and these ideas, these thoughts, these feelings
sometimes instantly, sometimes gradually
They are part of us
yet are physically outside of us.
The process of poetry involves
finding these grasshoppers, watching them fizzle like fireworks,
sometimes working backwards
until they become fireflies,
which is poetry.
They may fly away from us in the darkness,
the ideas may leave us still
but now they are written, claimed
and we can always identify
their warm glow from the darkness surrounding us.
They are ours now.
sweet like a watermelon popsicle
on the 4th of July
is much more effective
at capturing ideas, creating these fireflies
It is freeing
like running by the ocean in a dream.
It is thundering, roaring, but simple
and pays no heed to what others think it should be.
Poetry transcends prose
because of its reliance on ideas
it's quick mining and chiseling down
to what is important.
Poetry allows me to find myself
understand a feeling
uncover a new idea
and think in a new way.
It is like discovering your soul for the first time.