Solveig's Trail

There is an opaqueness here
that is hard to accept.
It is light and thick,
it dances behind your eyes
like cold water
ready to relieve the pressure
of the whole universe.

You are afraid that if you breath out
the symmetry of things will dissolve,
you will make the stars collapse,
the seams come undone.
And you will only be left
with a sideways glimpse of a light
that does not know how to
sit still.

You feel yourself wading in
wordless exaltation.
It teases you with the
promise of expression,
and then lies sprawled at your feet
in defeat.

Is it possible to capture it embodied
while being suspended in an abstract interlude?
It is a second skin of persistent consciousness
that doesn't want to be named.

If the music moves to its own rhythm,
so does life.
And the two briefly meet on your fingers,
touching each note in
physical sympathy.

What is this rhythm for
if not to make you more of yourself?
What is this rhythm for
if not to splinter you in time
and remind you of the delusion
of wholeness?

It is like wholeness within fragmentation,
and you think,
this is what life is for.
You will sit through as much daily boredom
as is required of beings,
if only this wordless splinter
will maintain its hold
for just
one more minute.

I will rise with you,
and fall with you,
so say the notes.
I will build an architecture
of the senses for you,
and I will lead you to a wall
where you will stop, weep, and want.

The world is momentarily cupped in your ear,
and nothing else needs to move,
or speak,
in Solveig's trail.

* * *

I know it's not Wednesday today for Poetry Wednesday, but I really just wanted to post this poem today, which I wrote last night while listening to Grieg's Solveig's Song. If you'd like to listen to it too, here it is:

I feel this intense fear everytime I press the 'publish' button on posts which contain my 'poems'. I'm still reluctant to call whatever these writings are 'poems', because I feel that real poetry is better than this. The thing is, I'm frustrated with myself because as much as these words are honest, they still seem to me to be steeped in cliche that is hard to move beyond as a writer. I wish there was an easier way of finding your own language and style without a somewhat embarrassing process of trial and error, but for me, there isn't.

I feel that so many writers try to find their own voice by imitating other writers they admire, and this often has an alienating tone to it. I'm trying to drown out other voices when I write, I'm trying to just say what I want to say without thinking about form, structure and the dreaded question of whether it's any 'good'. Maybe in ten years I'll be able to call what I write 'poems' without flinching. But for now, I think I will settle for that feeling of relief that comes with the process of emptying your mind for a little while. The process is what gives me the most pleasure, as opposed to the final product. But the final product is 'proof', right?