[poem] imperfect optimism

[kaberett]

Nobody ever looks up.
    The decorated brickwork chimneystacks that perch
    atop the rooves of King's
    have twins at Hampton Court.

It's not our fault:
we're taught to watch our step,
to focus on the ground,
to tear our gaze away
from clouds and stars.

And thus I lost myself in smile-veneered politeness,
in murmured mustn't grumble, I've been worse.
I turned to gaze inward upon the darkness,
considering how best to hide my hurts.

It's crass, we're told, to focus on achievements;
it's said, you know, that pride precedes a fall.
Immodesty has never been a virtue.
The kindly ones, we know, are often cruel.

So dwell instead on shame within the shadows:
it's best to never reach above your place.
Recall to mind your lingering resentments,
and cultivate regrets--

-- no. I refuse.
I'm weary of this hatred.
I will not live a life that is dictated
by guilt provoked by memories
of mistakes made by a ten-year-old long gone.
I'll dream about success
about tiny sunbeam joys
about peace; about the smell of warm, sweet grass.
I'll find new tracks through my neuronal paths.

Comments

[kaberett]

This is the poem I mentioned having started drafting and being unsatisfied with. I still am - seriously, concrit more welcome than ever - and I also want to talk some, sometime soon, about how writing poems works/feels for me, about the difference between urgent napkin poems and things like this, where I fiddle and fuss and start out with an idea but no sense of definitive beyond "I should try to express this maybe?", rather than the instant sure-footed flow of something like Clarity or Heartsick or from a hallway, somewhere after twelve or Fragment or Speak Out (of turn).