Poetry and I have one of those on again/off again relationships and I want to be cool about it. No strings, no hassle.
We broke up somewhere in the middle of 2017, I think? I had compiled a chapbook of mostly romantic poems that I felt told the narrative of that whole aspect of my life up to that point. I had fun organizing them like a mixtape, and their all being together in a sequence gave them a different life. I submitted this chapbook to one contest, never heard anything back, and found myself completely disconnected from any desire to pursue it further. Poetry, I mean.
Now I find it strange that I responded with such fickleness toward something that had always nourished me. I guess for one, I didn’t realize how much it nourished me and two, I didn’t realize how important having an audience was to my process.
I dislike what that says about me. I wish I could write just for myself, but in using art to help cope with my depression and anxiety, I’ve discovered that I have this really deep, usually unconscious need to perform: I need to put on a show for someone. I’m trying to accept that putting on a show for myself is enough. I guess this blog is like a compromise?
So I’ve been pursuing it again recently. Taking shy, tentative steps by just reading poetry, listening to it, and approaching it with a beginner’s mind. I want to post old stuff because having something to look back at helps motivate me. I think, “Hey, I made stuff once. Maybe it’s time to make stuff again.”
I wrote “The Sparrow’s Nest” around the time of the full moon in January 2014, and in my files “Wolf Moon” is part of the title. I think that was just to remind myself when it was written because it bears some relevance. Great song by Type O Negative, but I had to go with something more personal.
Below is a hilariously over-dramatic, spooky response to the question, “How was work today, honey?” because I sometimes enjoy embellishing real life until it resembles fun, B-level horror. Underneath is the real horror of living with anxiety.
The Sparrow’s Nest
At 13:18 there were six hundred and sixty-six billing grids listed.
At 13:15, the Assistant General Counselor backed me into my cube, told me to sit down and turn around to face the wall. I did.
(I turn from sparrow to wolf. Numbly. My affect becomes blunt but my teeth…)
At 11:43 the leavings not picked off from executive level feedings draw sparrows to the galley.
If I stay in the office after nightfall, I hear strange noises on the opposite side of the suite. The stairs. There’s something there that preys on the flesh of workaholics; ineffective ones who literally cannot concentrate to save their own lives.
The Director lives here, downtown.
Prior to leaving the office, he said, “I could just murder a Chipotle burrito,” to which the Senior Analyst replied, “Of course you’ll invite it over for drinks first,” and they laughed, but I smiled nervously because one of them is a werewolf and the other is turning, too.
I worry that they can smell me as I pass by. I worry that they have noted something offensive like incompetence or fear or a lack of will to go on living. All of which manifest in poor hygiene.
At 10:30, I caught one – his eyes blue as the January sky – counting the very hairs of my head as I bowed it to write.
Wide eyes; anterior median aligned. Rimmed in white; predator’s symmetry.
The last thing the sparrow sees.
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