One of my favorite things to avoid doing is rereading any of the poetry from my adolescence about love, or my perceived lack of it. Don't get me wrong. I think a lot of teenagers really can benefit from writing what's affectionately referred to as 'bad poetry'. Your brain at that time is going through a freaking circus of hormones and other chemicals. Any way to find an artistic expression for what you're feeling is beneficial.
But alas, that doesn't mean it's good. In 1990, I really thought I was taking all of my romantic angst and imbuing it into verse that could affect the lives of other like-tortured young adults for (hopefully) the better; although just being able to affect was really where my interests lay. I had no qualms about ruining someone's good mood just so I wouldn't be the only one unhappy.
John Cleese wisely pointed out that people who write autobiographies are much more objective with their childhoods than any other period of their lives. The reason is simple: you're not that person anymore. Your adolescence, on the other hand, is destined to be an embarrassment. You're not exactly that person, but you still kind of are. In my case, I was definitely closer to the worst of myself in my teens and early twenties than the best. And nowhere is that more evident than in the love forlorn/self-destruct fantasies of my high school-into-college years.
But, you know? I had Misty. You can read about her origins in my poetry slam from a few years ago, but the short version is, she was my pseudonym for all of my poetry. I guess maybe it was easier to allow myself the permission to write poems if I did it through a persona. Misty was somewhere between me and sort of a cynical muse. In my head I picture her as a Goth (an archetype that hadn't quite caught on when I was at McKinley High), a bit smarter than me, and more resilient to the chronic depression that I didn't realize I had.
I would love to have filled up a whole book with fun stuff from Misty; limericks and that lot. But as with most muses for adolescents, she had to negotiate with insecurities and weight-of-the-world illusions and negative experiences with romance that undoubtedly felt worse than they were. I still give her credit for any lyrics I write here in my forties, but the teens-into-twenties phase was where she produced the highest quantity of work. And here as we're approaching Valentine's Day, I think I owe it to her to give at least some of it a blog post in the sun.
But I'm laying down some ground rules. I know I have a couple of entries that clearly identify one of several specific girls who happened to be the target of everything I was feeling at the time. Those are either off limits or bound for the revision chamber. I'm sure today they wouldn't do any damage but I'm not willing to test it. Likewise, I'm not going to be putting these in chronological order or time stamping them. Just, as a whole, these are from a period in my life I usually don't revisit. And lastly, I reserve full editor's rights to comment how-and-whenever I see fit. Okay, time to dust off the old notebooks.
Lee of the Rock
A tree of any other ground is just as thin and pale
My limbs and branches reach in vain. Survival is my jail
A swallow seeks its rest from pain but none are keen to nest
These burdens weigh my wooden arms until a wailing crest.
To some the gale is lack of charms, consuming all it can
But says the trunk unto the breeze, undress my leafy span.
The heavy burdens put to ease, now swirling in a squall.
They rampage through a twisted maze as droplets start to fall.
The mist of mizzle blots the rays, the rain consumes my calf,
And like the butterfly and hound we both break down and laugh.
So for the record, this (highly edited) poem was the first I ever wrote from any kind of romantic angle. Yes, the title was supposed to mean something, but as it requires a needlessly thorough explanation let's just leave it at the subtle nod to The Secret of NIMH's 'lee of the stone' and call it sanctity. There.
Iambic Tetrameter No. 239 in C Flat
I've flown alone on many nights
With innocence of childish flights.
In time, my mind was lost of sights
And I was petrified of heights.
And so I landed on the ground
Without the slightest sullen sound.
Afraid of flight, I roamed around,
And by my feet, my wings were bound.
But you ripped off my thin disguise
And held my hands and freed my eyes
I grasped your neck, you felt my cries.
We slowly rose into the skies.
And in your arms I feared no more.
We swirled the clouds and ocean floor.
As eagles dance, we'd glide and soar
And chase our shadows on the shore.
Then higher, barely kiss the rays,
Glissading in a silent daze.
We'd surf the wind and skip the sprays
And plummet in a pealing craze.
As if a dream, the nights we've flown
Had plunged the depths of love unknown.
My days of grounding, I've outgrown
And never will I dive alone.
My teenaged self would be very hurt if he saw me chuckling right now, but in my defense he only has himself to blame. Whenever this was, I'd noticed that my poetry was becoming increasingly negative, and this was an attempt to focus on the 'joy' of life or some jazz. When I was done writing this poem, I didn't like it, hence the sarcastic title. Here's why I'm chuckling now. I feel that the quality of this poem is fairly okay in as much as the bulk of what I produced at the time was fairly okay. But my teenaged self was CONVINCED that the rest of my poetry was of a higher quality which made this one of a significantly lower quality, and it's funny to me just how passionate I was about that opinion that I just had to spite the poem with said title.
A ship named St. Virginia was as gorgeous as can be.
From bow to stern a masterpiece. A vessel flowing free.
So many men of fortune came to sail her gallantly.
But when the truants filled her hull, she sank into the sea.
Yes, this is about exactly what you think it is. I'm actually quite proud to have been a virgin going into my honeymoon, but that was in my thirties. I felt very differently about it in my teens. I couldn't have understood this at the time; deep down I didn't actually want to have sex, but based on the way (and frequency) in which the world around me talked about it, I couldn't help but feel as though I was missing out on some ethereal rite of passage. It's very easy for self-esteem to get wrapped up in all that, which left me feeling rather spiteful about sex while also kind of desperate to feel wanted.
Hey, here's a little rhyme about that conflict of interest.
The question's allusion to vestian confusion
Are purging of surging emerging excursions.
Elusive cognition's abusive decision:
A version of urging a virgin's aversions.
The First Snowfall
I often dream about a place where all my hatred disappears.
I'm safe and warm in that embrace away from temper's grinding gears.
I wrap my arms around your neck and rest my temple in your hair.
If fit, I give your face a peck. And songs of solace everywhere.
Our shoulders lock with passion pressed between the rests in every beat.
I feel your pulse against my breast. The sleet of sorrow melts in heat.
You hold me tight. I feel no pain. Oh, hold me tighter. Cripple me.
Let me face not this world in vain. Tear out my heart eternally.
Two things here. One, 'The First Snowfall' was probably the first poem where I started equating sexuality with violent imagery. In fact, as I was going through all of the old notebook pages to type these things up I found several poems and snippets relating to death. Who knows? Maybe I'll rework those sometime down the road. The other thing, notice my obsession with the weather? I don't think it really meant much beyond tying everything back to the name Misty.
Here, check this one out.
The snow and the wind and the mist
Weren't aware that the sun would persist.
It melted the snow.
The wind doesn't blow.
The mist is logistically pissed.
Real quick, 'the wind doesn't blow' has nothing to do with oral sex. And don't I wish I still had enough innocence in me to where I didn't even make that connection, much less feel the need to point it out?
The mist is obviously referring to Misty, who was serving as my superego. I was the sun. The snow and the wind were two elements of my failing romantic life. But I do have to give my teenaged self some credit here. He didn't shy away from admitting his responsibility in his own demise and that it affects people around him.
Eye-Contact
There was a time not very long ago
When I was but a child of wild delight.
I'd race the wind and hold the pulsing snow
And let my dreams dance circles in my sight.
I stared into thine eyes and fell in love
With innocence untold upon my face
A magic mist descended from above
And through our eyes, our souls received embrace.
But now my dreams have shattered from their deep
My mind is full of realistic lies
The world has locked my love in chasms deep
I cannot bear to look into thine eyes.
The welded dark of logic cannot free
Mine eyes that once been blind with love for thee.
How many people write sonnets on their own time? In fact, I woke up one morning and penciled it down pretty much the way that it is now.
At the End of the Rope
She's holding tight. She always did. The weight of me she's still to rid.
She knows I need her hanging on. If she should slip then I'll be gone.
She's tried to pull. She's tried to grope. Her grip secure around the rope.
She's weakening from what I see and soon she's going to follow me.
As I gaze I realize the pain and tension in her eyes.
She does her will to make me live but I have nothing here to give.
And so instead I take away. And in my final breath I pray
That in her pain she understands the reason why I freed my hands.
I was debating whether or not this would qualify as a 'forlorn love' or a 'death wish' poem. I was in one of my darkest places when I wrote this, but as it inadvertently marked the end of one romantic wave and the beginning of another, it feels appropriate to include 'At the End of the Rope' in this time capsule.
An Overdose of What?
You raise your eyes above the skies and paint an image swirled.
Your mind is high and free to fly. It shines upon your world.
And when your mind is still outshined and burns another scar,
You wonder why the hell you try to be the way you are.
You share your creativity whenever it's implanted.
So Heaven knows why all of those should take your trust for granted.
And you whose lull adorable, your smile lets others laugh.
Oh, how they long to hold you strong and snap your spine in half.
It seems the one whose life is run with deadly wild severes
Receives the praise of loud dismays and mournful caring tears.
Although you ache of strain intake from friends' fatality
Your whole damned soul is just a role in their reality.
The title probably means nothing. I may have been going for the idea that people who lived on the wild side of life always seemed to have better stories than reasonably pure individuals such as myself. My deadly sin is envy. It's probably the motivating factor in why I'm so adamant about making stuff rhyme the way it does. I may lack confidence in my ability to express emotion or meaning, but damn it, nobody's going to tell me that my poetry doesn't roll off the tongue well!
Here's an example taken to its most extreme. I should have gone to work for Hallmark.
No deeper cave of wild or fear will must my song in you.
No sleep enslave my childish tear, I trust and long anew.
And love if be your need is gone, with bliss be whole and well.
But shovel me and lead me on I'll kiss your soul in Hell.
Ah yes, the bane of my love life was always that golden spot known as 'arm's length'. I don't doubt that I was easier to love than to like; it's terribly burdensome getting close to somebody with untreated depression, and I know I didn't take any criticism about it well. But going through the prolonged process of being held at arm's length by someone I had a romantic attraction to probably left more of a mark than any straight-up rejection ever could have. If there's one bit of advice I hope to convey, it's this: when someone lays it on the line, i.e. makes it clear that they've opened themselves up to you, they deserve a direct answer. From you. Especially if the answer is no. I've been on the giving end once and the receiving end three times (karma?); nobody said no, nobody won, everybody got hurt.
Sorry, Jenny.
One More Chance
To err is only human and forgiveness is divine.
For giving all I have to you there's nothing left of mine.
I hold my breath and wait for your return- you say you will.
And love, if I believed your vow, I'd be here waiting still.
I'm longing to be taken in your arms and in your eyes
And feel the power in your lips- those words that utter lies.
You know I'll give my all for you, my all that I can be.
I know that you'll accept it too, and that's the end of me.
One more chance is all we need to line our journey straight.
So close your eyes and take a breath. You simply have to wait.
And wait, I did. For many moons that, laughing cynically,
Advised the wishful shooting stars to take their shots at me.
Those dreams that deem to strum a chord, the quest again is cried.
A 'no' or 'yes' is all it takes. Now when will you decide?
I see...you answered long ago. Now why did I ignore
This pact you drew with someone who I've never met before?
You tell me you've been honest with me. Honest every time.
But I'm too blind to see you, and you speak in pantomime.
One more chance, let's take our road and quickly make amends.
You know that we're committed dear. We work out well as friends.
I've swallowed pride (at least- I tried, it lodged inside my throat).
I couldn't sing of anything. I couldn't strain a note.
The thoughts I grieved were not believed. This couldn't be a test.
I still don't know what makes me woe that this is for the best.
You say you really need me and you say you really care.
You tell me not to blame you since it's hard enough to bear.
Just bottle up the memories and leave them on a shelf.
It seems ridiculous that I'd set out to fool myself.
One more chance? I figured that. We've done this bit before.
I'll give my half and let you laugh and then we'll end our war.
And now I'm waiting silently. I don't know where you are.
I don't know what to sacrifice except my wishing star.
I have no doubt I'll see you soon, some up and coming day.
I also have a feeling of those words I'll hear you say.
Once more chance. And then one more. And one. And one. And one.
I'm losing sight of what it's for. Or have I overrun?
I had no expectations and you didn't let me down.
Now one more chance. We'll start afresh. We'll take our triple crown.
One more chance- Yeah, what the hell? I've nothing more to lose.
I'll give my body, soul and mind. You donate seven shoes.
I want you to release me...but I don't...because you should.
You sneer, "So who's oppressing you?" The saying 'gone for good'.
I don't know where I'd go from here, or if there's here at all.
I'd rather turn my back on fear than face another fall.
"I never asked for anything-" but took it as it came.
You're free to climb inside my heart, just toss a coil of blame.
I'd say I'm altruistic but I know it's not all true.
I wonder, are you using me? You'd tell me, wouldn't you?
"I just don't want to hurt you." Well, you've kind of missed the train.
For if this feeling's sanctity, I'm better off with pain.
"Then maybe in a year or so we'll see if we can dance.
You want a simple yes or no, then find another chance."
A chance? For what? To use me up? To bleed my spirit dry?
To let me chase a hope in vain while pleading for reply?
To give me bait to stay and wait? To tease me to the bone?
If you want one more fucking chance you find it on your own.
So what is there to take from any of this? Well, if my life were fictional, I'd say my character's story arc (at least in this chapter) is ultimately about accepting the real possibility of isolation. My teenaged self would hear that and react in horror. Alone? Are you kidding me? I'm better off dead! Well, hell, that actually was my mentality back then.
Although come to think of it, I may not be giving my adolescent self enough credit. Adolescence is a disease like chickenpox. It's inevitable we're all going to have to endure it at some point, and our skin is going to break out, and we're going to be irritable, and we're going to itch in places that we're told not to scratch. We'll be experiencing things we can't possibly understand, and certainly can't process. We'll be feeling things that we mistake for other things, and hone in on that one damned thing that seems just out of reach, that one elusive relationship or that one affirmation from that one attractive schoolmate who's dealing with their own bout of chickenpox, and think "that's what I need to be happy". Adolescence is a miserable time for every adolescent, and I'm convinced that no decent kid makes it in and out without truly feeling at some point like they're a bad kid. Why else would they be feeling the way they do?
When I look back on these years with embarrassment it's because all I see are the mistakes. That, and I remember what it felt like, and how I felt about myself. How could I have been a decent guy when I felt so...lousy? All the time? But as I look back over my poems (and smooth out a few rough edges of course) I notice that they do seem to be pointing me in the direction of- maybe I'm going to have to learn how to be alone before I have any chance of committing to someone else. I feel like my teenaged self knew this, even if he didn't know that he knew it, (he WAS a teenager after all) but maybe Misty did.
I'm married now, and my wife is a blessing. Thirty-five years of being alone before we found each other, but she was worth the wait. If I'd been seventy she would have been worth it. I'm grateful to teenage me for hanging in there even if he didn't feel like it. All those promises of it getting better, that he never wanted to listen to, were true. You did good kid. You're much happier now.
I've got one more to close it out. I know I have this one love poem somewhere that I thought would have been the perfect way to end on, but for the life of me I can't find it; I searched through hundreds of notebook pages. But in my search, I stumbled across this. It's not polished and knowing me I probably meant for it to be part of something bigger, but I think it's right the way it is.
Every time I think I fall in love
I know this one is truly meant to be.
It's different now. It's better now.
I've shed my selfish fetter now.
I care for her and know she cares for me.
Every time I think I fall in love
I've finally filled the vacancy inside.
My hope is real. The passion true.
I'm growing in to something new.
At last, the promises are verified.
Brokenness will fade into a scar
And mist will turn to clouds that float above.
Again I rise. The dreams awake.
I'm moving on for pity's sake.
Every time I think I fall in love.
-Misty
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