About 15 years ago, I finished my second book (a collection of poems) entitled, “Heavy Mettle.” Lately, I’ve been revisiting the catharsis of creative writing. Friend J and I were having a conversation about the frustration with that head-up-ass sort of lovey dovey loverly love that humans experience from time to time. We talked about how it’s often lopsided in real life. In the movies, they’re always on the same page. This one loves that one and all ends happily, despite the 40 minutes of drama in the second act. In my thoughts about my lopsided experiences, I dug up this poem that was written at the turn of the century (I love that I can say that now). Here it is, imagine a 20-something Jet (the poet formerly known as Nocturnus) performing this in the Red Light Cafe or the Patti Hut Cafe (now closed) in Atlanta in 2001.
Unrequited
Despite its glory, unrequited is this story spoken in the tune of the unfortunate. I dare not speak of time for that lends itself to other things. I spend this ink on a story of vision.
The blanket, which is her existence, covers me, as does the morning sun in the naked air of October. Consume does she, my efforts at composure for they to are lost to her. This woman hath not eyes for me, nor my kind, and I find troubling is this situation this infection placed upon my person. Scents of heaven roll down for her as the wind caresses her breath and push her gaze out forward towards the unprepared benefactor. She is guided by that which is celestial and cradled by a spirit that must owe some penance to me. A greater gift I dare not observe for her smile outshines all things of material worth.
The elixir, which is her beauty, strikes me, as does the chill of winter in Michigan. I speak the tune of the unfortunate for she hath not eyes for me nor my kind. I find that her embrace speaks volumes of her affection and loving manner. Although, I may never know of her true power nor will I ever find myself outside the realms of her spell. Her overcast eyes tell the story of romantic and endearing skies that reach out from westward bearings. I pray that I may understand the designs of her beauty and the rapture that fuels them so.
The serenity, which is her voice, caresses me; the same as the fine Jazz of the ages penetrates my soul. Patience envelops my entirety during our departures. I know not of how or if my lips against her flesh will cripple my already tender heart. (Made so by her gentle nature and the openness of her mind.) Yet, I speak the tune of the unfortunate for she hath not eyes for me, nor my kind. Time shall soon beset me and find me under a blanket of tears if I do not find a way to prove the “potential” that I feel for her. The potential to love her, the yearnings to be near her.
I pray thee, follow my desires onto this broken path with twisted glass as I journey with bare foot and barren lungs. I have given my breath to her upon her asking! Note my journey with bare-naked flesh. I have given my very last for her warmth and comfort. Note my journey of infinite years that shall begin with a single step as she commands it! If she will have it so, she will walk by my side with aims on taking a journey equal in every way with the soul that has searched for hers since days long since past.
^from the mind of Nocturnus Exerçant Calme
There is a haunting truth and timelessness to that piece that causes the words to resonate 15 years after the pen bled out on the page and ended the curse of its blank existence. Every woman that I’ve walked towards has walked away and every woman that has walked towards me has seen me walk away. There is balance in the world, at least that’s what they say. When the pendulum swings in favor of one, it eventually swings in favor of its opposite. Ahhh, but wouldn’t it be nice if we could ride the pendulum and enjoy the swinging together! That would be nice. Until then, I’ve grown tired of walking and I hope to sit with someone for a while and enjoy each other’s warmth.
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