Longings

In the spirit of National Poetry Writing Month, I thought of doing a prose-poem for the blog. But before that, a small announcement. I have a song up on an episode of the London Theatre Podcast- episode titled –We Need to Talk –New Writing Showcase Part 1. It’s only 11 minutes long and you can listen to it on Spotify, iTunes, SoundCloud, PlayerFM or Podbean. Let me know what you think.

Longings

What does a love story look like? What shape is it? What are the ingredients you need to make one, and most important, where can you find them? I feel like there is space in me for a story, if I could only write one. Or does it get written for you? How does this work?

Does an island long for a ship? Do the walls of a little room long for rain to break in? Does a river raging in the rain forest feels incomplete for the space by your side? How does this work?

When you speak your words, and no one hears them, were you alive? If you spoke at all, and nobody else spoke your language, were you heard? Is it better to be heard and not heard, or to die of the weight of unspoken thoughts? Do you know how this works?

The flotsam drags me down as I search for a quiet hour. I only want a quiet trip away on a little boat. Beyond the waterfalls, there’s a cave, opening into a rainbow sea and quiet harbor. In the forest the silence buzzes in a choir of earth and life- water running, birds chirping, the wind rustling, insects droning, and your deep, slow breaths in the chill air, alone and in love with being alive, the beating heart teeming with the joy of the immense universe. Is that how it works? But does it really work if no one else knows how it works?

Must be nice, to be able to look into the water and forget the world. Perhaps we all look into the water now and then. Does the water never look back? What do you do, to make the water look back? 

Dusk lightings are the worst. Life streams around you in celebration of another day lived, as you trudge upstream, all spent. That curious half-light seems to whisper of magic, but you aren’t invited. The street lights stand like a banquet, in defiance of night. Little food stalls with the smell of fries, people who have dressed up for a little shopping stroll, voices in song but you are off-key again. All you can ask is why. Why do I go on? Am I going somewhere? When will I find out if this works at all?

I’m not a broken piece. I’m incomplete only because there’s so much more to see, so much more of me to become. On most days, it’s fun to find yourself. On bad days, you sit and toil and let the words come. As I am doing now. But sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be fun ‘becoming me’ with someone who spoke the language. Someone who fills up space. Someone who makes it work.  

Are you doing the #NaPoWriMo challenge? I am writing a poem every day and you can read them on Instagram and Facebook.

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