Description

A bird with a cry like a cell phone says something
to a bird that sounds like a manual typewriter.

 Out of sight in the woods, the creek trickles
 its ongoing sentence; from treble to baritone,

 from dependent clause to interrogative.

The trees rustle over the house: they are excited
to be entering the poem

in the late afternoon, when the clouds are creamy and massive
as if to illustrate contentment.

And maybe a wind will pluck pff the last dead leaves;
and a cold rain will splash

dainty white petals from the crab apple tree
down to the ground,

the pink and the ground mingled there,
like two different messages scribbled over each other.

In all of this place must be
reserved for human suffering:

the sick and unloved, the chemically confused
the ones who believed desperately in insight;
the ones addicted to change.

How our thoughts clawed and pummeled the walls.
How we tried but could not find our way out.

In the wake of our effort, how we rested.
How description was the sign of our acceptance.


 -- Tony Hoagland

When the Clock Struck 9,

How do I describe a floating when it has gone before I saw it from within. What is left is
a feeling of having had. Did you inhabit a spacious room filled with despair? We breathe
then move to the next obliging bird that has not slept for a century. What has it seen? It must be ashamed of mankind, but I doubt such creature was not envious of our sins. Birds may fly, but they will never be luminously delirious and alone like me. I give words to my isolation. I refuse
to speak when I desire. Inevitably, I breathe, yet I choose my death. On most nights when I suffer from an excess of self, my inner shadow complains and makes an attempt to murder my outer self. I fail to make her understand that we were never apart. The fastest way to kill one another is to kill yourself. There is no other way. You always write it yourself.

You Occupy a Vast Room in My Mind

"Do you think happiness lasts?"

You asked this during our very first conversation. I was with K at mag:net waiting for someone else when we randomly hung out. You sounded as if your life depended on it. 

Eight years later, I still remember what I said: It's a feeling. It's not meant to last. My younger self tried to reason that happiness cannot be trusted. Then you asked if it was worth pursuing, knowing that it would fade out. 

But before I could say anything, my friend arrived and I left you without much of a goodbye. Unceremonious, I know. That's how many of my conversations were marked back then. For that, I'm truly sorry.

Still, how I wish I told you: Yes, your happiness is worth pursuing. Only, I wasn't sure of this then. I could have been more encouraging, but you didn't hear the answers you needed from me. Besides, I wasn't bold enough to chase my dreams. I had no clue what would make me happy. 

You wanted to live intensely. I wasn't sure if I still wanted to live. 

Today, I think you understand this matter better than I ever will. I don't even have to say it now because that's exactly what you're doing. Through it all, I hope you know I'll just be here for you.

Maybe in a day or so I'll remind you we had this conversation, though I'm quite sure you will not remember. (You're too shy to admit you were lost back then. Also, your memory has become ten times more selective than mine.) 

For what's it's worth, I want you to know that conversation helped me somehow. Since then, I made it a point not to take happier times for granted. More importantly, just like you, I didn't want to be afraid of life and the future anymore.

So, thank you. 

I don't know why I wanted to write about this. Perhaps I should have more faith in random things.