{poem} january

the day wakens with a shudder
a chill articulating down its spine

this is the way it should be
in january
bitter
     tightly hung
          soundless

yet lately
january has been fickle
waffling between hot and cold
light and dark
real and unreal

i see its trail most clearly
on the lake

ebbing and flowing
like waves on the shore
the waxy water freezes
and then
thaws upon itself
in a sort of maniacal waltz
performed on command

not unlike myself
     some
          days
a vertiginous dervish
hell bent on accomplishing
     some
          thing

any
    thing



and then there is the frost
that so delicately encases its prey
with whisps of crystallized fancy
and jewel like joy

sometimes I wish I was laced with frost
so that
when I woke
I
too
could stand in the field
arms outstretched
pulling in fast all that is alive and quickening
and
when I turned just so
I could make the sun explode
into a million rapturous beads
hanging from my neck
and
     wrists
          and
               ankles

untitled

so I've set the mood, this arbitrary construct that, in my mind, creates the space for writing...a third cup of coffee, my "ambient" station on Pandora, some chocolate...all gathered in this space with the hope of capturing the uttering of my soul
because that is what it is like for me
a groaning
a writhing
a pain

and then

release
an opening
a rush of light
glory
joy
quiet

i know this to be true:
i have something in me that has to get out
constantly

when i'm in the shower, it swirls
while I'm buttering toast, it builds
when I glance out the window and see the sparkle dancing off the weedy grass, it is born anew
when my boys blink or sigh or scream, blocks of ideas are lining themselves up in a row, trailing off into the nothingness

how do i catch it?
how do i do it justice?
how do i walk alongside it, hold its hand, listen?
how?

and then
the question that nags and pulls and hurts
comes

why should i?

who am i to think i have something to say that anyone wants to hear?
how very pompous of me to think that i have something different to say
different than the gazillion others that blog and tweet and...

but
wait

haven't i found it to be true
that
when unleashed and untethered and unbridled
this keyboard becomes like the Holy Spirit
channeling my moans and groans
into words that tell stories and reveal grace and truth and light?

because how could i not do it?

how can i not embrace the joy
the pain
the cracks
the dirt
the clouds
the noise
the music
the
everything?

its as if i'm having a conversation with the void, hoping and praying that its echo will reveal answers and wisdom untold

so
i guess i will keep writing

whether or not you are listening.

“Writing is a process in which we discover what lives in us.  The deepest satisfaction of writing is precisely that it opens up new spaces within us of which we were not aware before we started to write.  To write is to embark on a journey whose final destination we do not know.  Thus, writing requires a real act of trust.  We have to say to ourselves:  ‘I do not yet know what I carry in my heart, but I trust that it will emerge as I write.’  Writing is like giving away the few loaves and fishes one has, trusting that they will multiply in the giving.  Once we dare to “give away” on paper the few thoughts that come to us, we start discovering how much is hidden underneath these thoughts and gradually come in touch with our own riches.”

Henry Nouwen