Apr 3, 2008

Poetry Friday, or, Oh Gods Is He Bitching About Work Again?

And yes, I am. *wink*

I've noticed that my posts here of late have been gravitating toward an "I hate work" trend. I'm trying to keep it to a minimum, I promise. Things just keep happening that make me want to explode into a million gibbering bits that all hate being at that office.

When I was in college I'd sit tailor-fashion in the hallways between classes. I'd have my old battered drug-store fountain pen in hand and my notebook on my knees and I'd be doodling or writing some sort of wandering prose in the big blank spots. My notebooks always had those--empty places where I'd fallen asleep in class, or where the professor had gotten off on a diatribe about "Man's Place In The Twentieth Century And Where The Hell Has God Gotten Off To?" and I'd gotten to thinking about how I'd much rather be outside working in the sun, or lying somewhere with that pretty girl two rows over, three seats up, the one with the really nice legs.

When I wrote those prose bits I'd always try to use spacing and clever word placement to give them the rhythm I wanted, the cadences I could hear in my head. This is much harder to do with HTML, so I've given it my bestest and perhaps you can feel it.



Away.

I want to be away.
Away from all this.
I want quiet

  • the sort of quiet you get just after dawn in the deep woods
  • that is to say the quiet of animals waking up and insects stirring
  • and the quiet hoot of an owl returning home.


I want to be away.
Away from retraints.
I want to be alone

  • the sort of alone that comes of not having to help people
  • people who don't NEED help, they just want to be helpless
  • and the telephone. I'm sick of Bell and his marvelous tool.


I want to be away.
Away from noise.
I want solitude

  • the sort of solitude in which you can work for hours
  • the only sound you hear being your own heartbeat
  • and the rush of your breath as your muscles warm in the sun.


I want to be away.
Away from people.
I want isolation

  • the sort of isolation that forces you to take a long, hard look
  • makes you drag out your soul, dust it off, and examine it for dents
  • because you're the only thing that matters out here.

11 comments:

Joan of Argghh! said...

Very nice. I have a similar one from a few years ago.

Of course, the only problem with trying to get quiet by the seashore is that someone usually shows up with their radio blasting--- because you know--- the silence is just too deafening for some folks.

Shhhh...

meno said...

Shhhh, the music of the spheres.

mickelodeon said...

Beautifully expressed and so spot on, it's not even funny.

Perfect.

Maggie said...

oh god that quiet. that is my dream. and this makes me miss the ocean. big sigh.

Nancy Dancehall said...

Every Word Maggie said.

Mother of Invention said...

Neat "bullet poem"! Sounds like you need to borrow my Chestnut cedar strip canoe and paddle off on your own for a few days...maybe hear the silence of the world as it was meant to be heard...maybe even be lucky enough to hear the cry of the loon.

I did one on an unpleasant work situation I had in teaching a few years ago from which I eventually chose to go away.

Joan of Argghh! said...

some fear
solitude
and arrive at
loneliness
never knowing
that they're
not the same

i crave the place
where my thoughts
are my own
no plans or pressure
no need or obligation
just alone
not lonely
self-defined
not outcast
inwardly drawn
but not withdrawn
self-possessed
and sane
if only for
an hour or two
oh make it a day
or three
a year
without fear
or fretful thoughts
just dreams
and mirrors
and discovery

Gordo said...

Stupid use of a walkman has precluded me from ever hearing silence again, but I certainly enjoy the ringing in my ears when it's uncluttered by other crap.

This is exactly what it's like at our cottage. It's heaven. It gets Louisiana-hot in July, so you'd be quite a home, me thinks. :-D

Jean said...

Here you are, speaking for me.
Thank you.

Irrelephant said...

Joan, I'm glad you posted your poem down there; quite a nice bit of prose I must say. I've always felt the pull of the ocean. That sort of quiet I could certainly get used to.

meno, as I've gotten older I've found a certain joy in being in quiet places.

Micks, thank you dear. I find myself incities and it makes my skin crawl.

Maggie, this is the first year I won't be going to Oregon with my daughter. The ocean has always been such a restorative. This year, without it...it's going to hurt.

Nancy, I need to get a digital recorder and record several hours of surf, so I can sit and listen when it gets bad.

MoI, I doubt seriously I could pilot a canoe, a flat-bottom johnboat is a lot more my speed. *g*

Gordo, I hate it for you, I really do. My father used to go hunting and come back with an empty game bag--I'm starting to realise that he was just walking in the woods.

Jean, I've often read works that have been exactly that--someone speaking the words I couldn't find. I'm glad I found a few for you.

Mona Buonanotte said...

Sigh. I could read this over and over for days....