If you’ve been reading my blog you’ll know I’ve been on something of a journey – I still am. I’m writing my way through it and I’ve realised that I am often literally journeying, as I write on the commute home from work. So today I begin a new blog series, Poetry on the Journey.
If I had words to describe the maelstrom inside me
The amalgam of contrasting, conflicting senses, thoughts, feelings
I might begin to know what to do.
If I knew that I was angry I could work out my anger
If I knew that I was sad I could cry and grieve and heal.
But words are inadequate. There are not single names
Which give adequate space or power or strength.
I know that the feelings exhaust me
They injure me
They surprise me
And they keep changing.
I move from the consuming void of desolation, to the fire of something more akin to anger, to the breath grabbing, stabbing pains of pointed arrows of hurt
Laughter can intercept and throw things off course with a flash of what could be joy
But only momentarily
The colours and shapes and intensity never idle
Some bigger and wilder than others,
but then within a moment they shrink to the background allowing new noises and hues to dominate.
I try to identify and name and analyse and resolve
To no avail. I cannot move fast enough. They are in perpetual motion
I am like a small craft inside my own mind. Tossed by the crashing waves.
Have I capsized? Am I still the right way up?
What is sky; what is sea?
Let them be. Whatever they are. These feelings of shape and colour and sound.
They are real, and they are mine.
They ARE beautiful.
For when is colour not beauty?
When is sound not music?
When is movement not life?
And now… be still