New Direction
I have recently been reflecting on shifting my approach to writing and reading. This space, in its initial conception, was always meant to be about pushing myself to write more consistently. It also ought to be about learning how to write differently. As such, those of you who visit regularly might notice a push towards a more lyrical and less overtly technical approach. I may also be inclined to take up different subject matter. There is often a real artistry and depth of feeling to good writing in th field of psychotherapy and I hope to bring more of that to bear on my own work. That might mean awkwardly pushing in directions that don’t always land as I’d hoped. I think that’s ok.
In this instance, that means sharing an actual poem—something I have been working out the last couple of days. Unlikely that it will always look like this, but in terms of taking experimental risks and getting outside my comfort zone as a writer…here it is. I look forward to seeing what else this shift might bring.
I have been thinking, lately, a lot about time
I have been thinking a lot about time—
Time and poetry.
Of course, poetry, in many ways,
Deals with questions of time.
There is the way meter gets paced out
And the expectations of how one should hold
A line as it unfurls, stretching against space,
Claiming blankness, warring dumbly against its
Own end.
There is the inevitable importance
Of the time in which it was written.
The historical context of the poet
And the life of the writer, in as much
As the things which are written are
Always some expression of a life lived—
Which is why we only feel safe revering some works
After the poet has passed—the completion of
The task giving form and shape to the quality
Of that which a life makes. So much history written
After history’s sake.
There is the time that passes between lines like:
“Because I could not stop for Death” and
“Were toward Eternity”—shame (and ashamed)
We should speak of that—the ebb and flow of which
Gives the poem meaning and shape, Eyes
Hungrily pursuing words and thought,
Tracing, as they go, the order of quivering dews
And scarcely visible roofs. Limber, these lines
Carry us places, sturdy and swift, because
Poetry, even long, is short, fleeting and brisk.
And so too is time.
I have been thinking, lately, a lot about time.
Thinking about time and knowing that,
Sometimes, it can be hard to make sense
Of all the ways people go about coping
With their suffering. Wondering at the ways
In which people leave unmendable hearts
In their wake, because of some complex
Commitment to a psychology that cannot
Hold what it itself has wrought.
Some may say this sounds like confusion.
I consider it a point of fact.
Sometimes, in its insistence, time
Confronts me with the limitations of
My worldview. And I find my agnostic
Sensibilities wishing and wondering
If there were more. I will speculate
As to whether or not, perhaps,
There is an afterlife where we,
As angels, once again see our children,
And they us. Partners, there is too much
Complexity in that, but parents and children
Should reunite, and stretch out on clouds
Against vast light, to sort out what happened
To who and why, and maybe share again
Some small caresses.
I have been thinking a lot about time,
And the fact that a lot of poetry
Is about trying to say what cannot
Be said.
Secrecy abounds
In my work as well.
Storing lives
And giving them new life
When the work goes well, when it
Goes right.
When we can heed caution,
Our instincts in good support.
When the guilt, and rage, and horror, and dread,
Stay locked behind fiercely bolted doors,
Because we did all, and all, in this instance,
Was enough.
I have lately been thinking a lot about time.
