"The Devil In Me", 365 days 365 poems, Address to the Devil, adolescence, art, aspirations, BRCA +, Creativity, daily poetry, discipline, insomnia, lessons, love, Poetry, Robert Burns, spoken word, Teaching, Teaching Adolescents, Voyager, Writing
Last night, after writing the blood moon poem, HP and I went outside with the binoculars and peered at it for about an hour and a half. It was, I can’t even think of what it was, it was ancient light, it was elemental, it was the big word, it was the spell. It was cold, too, and I woke up with a raw, stinging throat and a limb-numbing fatigue. Spring cold. Plus pollen.
As a result, I’m rather anxiously poemless tonight. Tax day, I could probably poem something about that. We filed ours yesterday, and were super stoked to find that it is a good tax year for us, because we spent so much on medical. That makes me nervous about next year though, because I don’t have any more parts that need moved around, knock wood. And I am totally down to pay taxes, but you know what I want in return? I want some full day Kindergarten, state of Idaho.
So, I’m not going to poem about taxes. That much is clear to me right now. Something will come. I haven’t hit the wall yet. I’m borrowing that, in the most lazy way of a seasoned procrastinator (you picked up on the fact that we filed a day before, right?), from my friends and colleagues who ran the Whidbey Island Marathon this weekend, but I really have not experienced anything like the real wall, because I am no athlete. But, I haven’t yet gotten to the poem wall, where I imagine myself running in tears to HP and screaming that I have NO POEMS LEFT. So, I’m good.
At least that is what I’m telling myself. I had a weird nightmare this morning, I think because I had a mild fever, and there’s some kind of thread running through the day that I’m going to follow.
Devils and Me
The Devil is the oddest word and greatest story, a poor wretch, some say, a fool’s hero. All the cartoon versions, with dead yellow eyes and red horns, or with black wings of unusual span, always already some unrecognizable Other, these are the devils I’ve known. Until the dawn after the blood moon, that brought the stunning epiphany, and the jolt of knowing that crushed my windpipe, that the devil in this dream looked like us. It was a human face that shrank in the darkness, and those ropey, gray arms belonged to our fittest dictators, our businessmen, our filthy elite, our glamorous nobodies, and those pallored wrists, were the arms of doubt and submission.
So, this is kind of Voyager.
But, hey it is what it is. Happy Tuesday!