Inspiration in the laundry room

Sorry for the late post, I'm quite busy with exams right now, and I have to say the whole blog thing is quite new to me... so all my apologies. I swear there will be more writing on the way once these hell-like weeks have come and gone :)

I was actually revising for American Literature two days ago (still am...), reading Allen Ginsberg's Howl. Really loved his style and imagery: it's all so explicit, tension-filled and harsh that it makes it inebriating... I almost came into this kind of trance reading it haha... ok maybe not to that extent, but it really is powerful stuff.

So, while doing my laundry at 11 pm and reading Ginsberg's endless strings of verse, I was suddenly struck with an idea for a poem, and (having no paper or pen), typed it up on my phone (it took up 5 notes haha).

So here you go ladies and gents:

Hibernation of Broken Hearts

I.

Your majesty always wins.

And I dig with dirty nails the wet ground of our field,

Letting the jazz drip through my pores,

And sip my soul…

A velvet wine indeed.

I am now one with the world –

Music and dirt will choke me to comfort.

You cannot reach me here, too high up with disdain;

Pinned to your cloudless ceiling of perfect.

So let it be this way:

Your majesty strapped, securely in himself,

And I, the underground worm,

Who yet again could not reach for the stars.

C’est comme cela, “Verre de terre amoureux d’une étoile”

But your stellar ego was cold anyways,

It had frozen my heart.

When, ice skating on the lake,

You did not come…

No, busy dancing, pulsing to a narcotic tune of novocaine,

And rave…

Oh, rêve! Rêve d’être avec vous, mais vous n’êtes pas venu.

No, the French are condemned to scribble away crystal tears,

Tears of muddy dirt and A-minors.

But the laundry is done now, and everything else has yet to start.

So earthworm looks up: Day, at the Sun.

Night: at your cold and distant victory.

I can’t help desiring,

For a sudden Supernova…

II.

As I crawl this way,

Hear the cat-like purrs of this and that.

Your eyes twist in an invisible stare,

Forcing me back, underground:

Non, je ne veux pas te voir.

But didn’t you see the beating red sign in my chest?

The one that cried: “Beware! Repressing emotion can lead to explosion!”

But, too late… too late.

The Supernova has wiped out my world;

Nest of earth and jazz now all turned to putrefaction,

Decay.

And warning sign,

Blown away.

Mais pas vous, votre majesté,

Your pulsing heart keeps beating,

Yet… beating for another.

As you turn on the news,

Hear the buzz of grey channels:

“After investigation, a broken heart was found to have caused the explosion…”

And mute. The grey turns black.

It’s the same refrain for everyone anyways,

A myriad of moans in A-minor.

III.

But this they did not know:

What is broken can mend,

A scarred soul growing from the dirt,

In spring; with fingers and eyes,

And stems and leaves.

And dirt-coloured petals,

Pointing up at your cold distant star

In an uncanny grin…

Fingers now strum away on strings

Of different hearts;

And I sing in A-major.

Just a little note: I kind of used personal material for this poem, so some might understand what I'm talking about (with the similarities to real life and all).. And I'm sorry if it sounds accusatory, bitter or resentful; it's not really. I just needed something to help me get rid of these emotions. And it all came down to words.

Photo by Phinou