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| "Wheatfield With Crows" by Vincent Van Gogh (Wikimedia) |
When I saw the crows that morning
I knew there would be a murder
Nothing too typical, but caustic
Stains on my relished ego.
I can’t help but wonder
About you, who I loved
Those many years…
Time passes by when having fun
Sometimes it slips by, without
A trace of symmetry left behind.
Was I too full of pleasure?
To even notice the lies before me
Would be an adventure of its own making.
So I count the crows outside my window
One, two, three, maybe more
But I can’t help but stare plainly
Like a cast of blank light.
As twisted as it may seem,
Even within two and a half years,
I can’t help but to hate you.
I hate you for loving me.
I hate you for being there when I needed you.
I hate you for treating me like family.
Oh how many crows I could count
So many, so many, but,
The death of me was one flashing moment
The moment I saw a viper’s kiss
That squeezed the life from me.
Why were your hands on him?
Weren’t my arms warm enough for you?
Whistles buzz like crazy in my ears,
But I don’t care because all I see
Is you and the crows,
The crows that swarm me.
To kill you,
Would be something I could bear.
So there would be a murder that day
My murder.
Question: "Are there any regrets that you may have left behind?"
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Check this blog out! Join in on the community: Real Toads Blogroll
Love and hate... ever two sides of the same coin.
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing in The Imaginary Garden.
My pleasure to share my work with you all. :) And yes, how those two seem to unravel at the same time.
DeleteDarkness under those wings.. murder indeed...
ReplyDeleteI was in a dark place when I wrote this. It has a lot of emotional meaning for sure.
DeleteThis resonates on so many levels.
ReplyDeleteI have regrets, but sometimes I like to think of them as another way life could have gone and it feels less like a kind of death.
I've taken self-indulgent journeys over the years and went over what I thought were regrets. Till this day I will still say that some memories I wish I could erase, but most of the time I'm taking it as a silver lining. There is no sense in wallowing over the past.
DeleteLots of hyperlinks to my mind in this poem. :)
ReplyDeleteStarting by the murder of crows (don't you find it an amazing collective noun? What a beautiful picture it represents): The Cardiff & Miller Gallery in Inhotim is home for the installation 'The Murder of Crows', one of the most remarkable sound experiences I've ever had. There are ninety-eight audio speakers mounted around the space on stands, chairs and the wall designed to create a wonderful work of physical sound to recreate the experience of being inside someone's head during a nightmare. It's hauntingly beautiful and a work that inspires me deeply. I've recently come across the entire thing on Sound Cloud, here is a link for the audio https://soundcloud.com/julhana/the-murder-of-crows but I do hope you have the opportunity to visit the installation if it ever comes to your area. Whenever I have the chance to I go back there because the experience is life altering. You can see the usual setting in this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xfa2fvWZ6II
I have also written a poem inspired by a murder of crows. http://anexerciseonexisting.blogspot.com.br/2014/04/a-murder-of-crows.html
This is an easily relatable poem, Kenn, there is a Brazilian poet I'm very fond of, called Carlos Drummond de Andrade who said "I write so my readers know they are not alone, that there is someone in the world with the same fears, angst and dreams of theirs. I write to comfort them." Whether this was your intention or not, I thought I should tell you I can relate in many levels.
I read your reply for Björn below, about being in a dark place, and thought I should share this song, which kind of helps me stick to the light: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sW0ljH4VW0w
Whatever it is that sent you into your dark place, let it go.
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go. (~ Mary Oliver)
(No, it's not easy, I had to tattoo it to my wrist so I could remember it. http://tinyurl.com/kao5s69 )
There was another link I wanted to share with you, but I couldn't find it... I'll keep looking for it and come back to share it when I have it, ok?
I like the questions poured throughout the poem. I am a big fan of questions. They are thought-provoking. It was Voltaire who said a man is to be judged by the questions he asks instead of the answers he offers, wasn't he? When you get used to my randomness, I may venture into answering some of your questions with poems. I am very keen on such dialogues.
Now I must proceed to the poem you wrote inspired by my poem (I'm honored by the way). See you in the next comment.
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I have to say that you are the only person I've ever met that actually leaves expansive comments like this. I greatly enjoy your constructive responses to my poems. You always speak with so much passion, and relate your information on a personal level, and I find this both intimidating (word wise) and amazingly interesting. I like receiving little bits of knowledge from others, because I feel this kind of community needs that sharing knowledge vibe. It helps to nourish out creative minds, and it helps everyone, not just the poet who has written the topic matter, but everyone who is included into the whole process.
DeleteI will try to check out that video and the sound cloud links you've sent me as soon as I can. I'm in a cafe without headphones at the moment, so I've lucked out at the moment.
Anyways, I write poetry because it is the perfect medium in which I can share what it is like to be human. I mean this in a strictest sense because in poetry their is an underlying identity that the author tries to define. Like most writers, we draw our collective thoughts from everything that surrounds us. So in a way we are telling out life's story in each poem that we write. I don't know how many people would agree with me on this, but this is how I've come to realize it.
Nothing like crows to add a dash of the sinister. Well done.
ReplyDeleteThank you Debi. :)
DeleteI think an older part of us hates with something more than the alternate of love when our ambitions at love fail. We strike back as if the axe was a bitter salve. Seeking revenge in the metaphor of a murder of crows--a flock of knives. Nice.
ReplyDeleteThank you for noticing the inner workings of my poem. I often leave it to everyone to form their own personal opinion of what is written. Your thoughts weren't too far from the truth.
Deletenot sure why but "relished ego" really hits, even more so than the murder, for me anyway.
ReplyDeleteThe funny thing with that line is I was literally in the middle of having a brain cramp, and I spotted a bottle of ketchup relish, and it instantly seemed to come together. It is weird how writers obtain their creative spark.
DeleteAaaah regrets . . . I know I have a few. Love the imagery you depict with murder by crows.
ReplyDeleteI was half inspired by Edgar Allen Poe and the noisiest night I've ever heard (a real murder of crows outside my window). Thank you for the comment Kathryn. :)
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