Day 22: My Wife

Pablo Neruda is my favorite poet. That wasn't always the case, but the first time I read "The Queen" from "The Captain's Verses" it was so. I fell hard, and I fell for so many reasons. Foremost, Neruda was able to say what I wanted but wasn't able. Neruda felt things for a woman that I believed I had felt, yet I couldn't come anywhere close to expressing my devotion and respect and worship that way he was able. Neruda spoke from the heart, but he did so in a way that made me believe he was channeling what he felt in his mind, spirit, and heart directly with no filters, no apprehension, no hesitance, no barriers. Neruda related his emotions hard and true. I admired that immediately, and I still do. 

And when you appear all the rivers sound 
in my body, bells 
shake the sky, and a hymn fills the world.

Only you and I, 
only you and I, my love, 
listen to it.

I wrote my first poem when I was 14. Of course, it was about a girl. But it wasn't an ode to love. It was an ode to misery. An ode to rejection. An ode to a broken heart. That's where most of my personal writing has always remained--in the blackness, in the darkness, in the chasm. I've never been afraid to explore the "shit." In the years since, I've written very, very few poems, or anything else for that matter, of a personal nature that anyone would classify as being positive. It's not easy for me. Never has been. Sometimes, I feel I lack the ability to even pull it off. But there are those people and moments and emotions that all come together in perfect timing and inspire me. When I've been smart enough to pay attention to those times, I've been rewarded with the gift of being able to accurately capture how I felt. That's a gift, and I recognize it. 

Poems aren't for everyone. I'm not sure people even read poetry anymore, at least not as many as used to. Still, poems are the best way I've always known to capture the moment, emotion, and people. My favorite poem I've written is about my wife. That's not a coincidence. There's meaning and purpose there. There is stark reality in the words. True meaning. I'm proud of this poem. I proud of it because it says everything I feel but can't articulate verbally. I don't know if I would classify myself as an artist. I'm not sure I possess the skill to dub myself as such. But I think I own an artist's heart and mind, and that means putting yourself out there and dare to explore below the surface. I'm so grateful I dug below the surface and let myself feel these words: 

Thoughts On Shannon

On certain evenings,

I want your hair to hang down,

to drape deep with shadows,

to curl wild on bounce and wind.

I want you to pout your lip,

to heat me,

to slip your cheek,

to trick my eye,

to promise your voice,

to sway me full,

to twist your tongue,

to lick me sweet.

I want your jaw slung low,

to overtake my faith,

to slope my neck,

to drain me weak,

to drive me drunk,

to freeze me still,

to blaze my night,

to trace my eyes,

to rose my cheeks,

to spread the sky,

to leave me summer-strong.

On certain evenings,

I want your hair to hang down.

BAF