Gilgamesh
It's all happening for a reason
I'm told. And lately
that's what it feels like -
happenings have been reasonable, I mean.
But with that
with being told it's supposed to happen
just so - just part of the big plan -
it also feels a bit like sand under feet: first
hotly dense and wishy-washy but then
a wet chalky when by the shore,
responding to your feet
with miniature cliffs and valleys -
terse, abrupt answers in the sand?
You're still stepping the same.
Or it's like blowing
a feather in the air and inhaling
your breath only to find
that the feather is plastered to your lips.
It's like planned déjà vu, basically:
an oxymoronical way of living
and I'm not going to waste
myself, but I'm not
going to fawn over fate either.
1 comment:
Hey, Angela. I love this poem. There is great imagery and I think I like the message too (although I feel that it is a bit unclear). I do have a general suggestion, if you are in the mood for critiques. If not, please disregard this; I may still be in my creative-writing-class mode. My advice, though I hardly deign to give it, is this: think about the container for your work. Obviously this poem is supposed to be saying something. But it reminds me of a hermit crab without a shell. It's all meat, with no home and no shell. Have you even seen a hermit crab without a shell? You can't even really recognize what they are. You give a lot of meat in these poems, or vegetable, if you would rather, but I can't recognize what it is because it's exoskeleton isn't present.
Anyway, it's just a suggestion. I love you!
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