Description: This is the foundation to a very important piece...much revision and perfection is called for.
How to be Without Desire -------------------------------------------
Now that I am once again a speck of dust...
my life is but a never ending sentence
as anonymous as a love letter forgotten (how to be…without desire)
in the sleeve of a library book
or apart of the nuisance of a mistaken home.
We write what we think is poetry
to understand, if not misinterpret our journey
past the boundaries of our existing soul. (internal struggle - flawless
fighting for excuses - faulty)
How long must we put ourselves up to be questioned
by the ruthless inquisitors we call our reflections?
Now that I am once again a speck of dust…
I seek comfort in my restraints
as mechanisms that can teach me who I may be (without desire…how to be)
I can predict my past far beyond the future
and love of patience is a barrier I welcome.
reflections can kill. or affirm. most of the time i look in the mirror I need a haircut.
Ok, one little thing (and this is just me)- I can't stand the boldedness. it just messes with the way the poem looks on the page, like someone took a sharpie to it, screaming "THESE PARTS ARE IMPORTAnT." They are. They don't need the bold. They're all already in the parenthetical.
Ok, I love the first stanza. the love letter in the library book... There's a huge library at my school, but this letter I think is like, in the Library of congress, or some huge old downtown library with 15 floors and it's dark and... well, we're all so insignificant it's mind-blowing sometimes.
or apart of the nuisance of a mistaken home.
----this line is foriegn to me. as is "(fighting for excuses-- faulty)"
Of course, love the play on the title sentence. it's the heart of the piece, and it's relatable.
The repeated line "Now that I am once again a speck of dust..." Makes me think of this whole thing as a sort of aftermath or like a come-down. a come-down from life- from being involved in yourself and everything, now you're retreating, sinking down, no longer puffing yourself up and striving ever onwards. There are, after all, restraints, boundaries, you can only push so hard, so far, before one collapses, or submits, and I think we've all just wanted to submit sometimes. like after french class....
love of patience... I guess that's a barrier. impatience is often so very frustrating, but to always have patience, to love such a thing would be an invisible barrier.
there's much more to delve into here, but i'm not going to. just....
this is heartbreaking in so many ways. not only because it's so defeated, but because it's undeniably true.
so, you said this was the base of a larger/important piece? I'd love to know where you're going with this, if you plan on going further. I think it's pretty complete as is.
I think the whole poem, was packed full of meaning, and intriguing phrasing. The first line reminded me "for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return". The sixth line puzzled me. Do you mean "a part"? I'm not sure I can understand it without further context or information.
I am thinking of the puns or double-meanings which can be read into your poem. For eg. love apart from being a part of the phrase "love letter", can also mean zero in Tennis. And the word "letter",apart from an epistle, can also be a part of a sentence.
It's interesting how you set up the main text like a conscious voice, apparently resolved on its issues, while the bracketed text serves like a sub-conscious or true voice, which reveals the actual thoughts.
I especially like the middle and the ending stanza, compared to which the beginning seems inadequate. The poem is crypticly thought-provoking. I'll be glad to hear what you had in mind when you wrote this.
"We write what we think is poetry
to understand, if not misinterpret our journey"
This is interesting. We write because we seek to understand our world and the things in it. But you put forth an interesting view. You say we write in order to "misinterpret our journey". Why, though, are we trying to misinterpret life? Are we trying to not see the reality of life, the harshness, the cruelty, the death that pervades our very lives. Were it not for beauty, we would be heartbroken...
"How long must we put ourselves up to be questioned
by the ruthless inquisitors we call our reflections?"
True, how true. When we look in the mirror we always seems to interrogate ourselves. They say a picture is a thousand words, so our reflection must be 10,000.
In this poem you seem to be trying to fade in the background, to be like a "speck of dust". But are you trying avoid life or love? Or both?
I like how you took the line "how to be without desire and change the words around for different effects". I like the last one the best: