Morning’s Reflection

CROP OakAlley Plantat Louisiana

FEAR: that invention that keeps us good

Believing in that house at

The end of a road

Paved with distraction

No signs posted for talent or genius nor

turnoffs for iron-hard reality – adulthood

That cul-de-sac of desire

Fear-driven success

The locking mechanism

Brings dispatches

From the big house –

The brain;

That Swiss Army Knife of survival

The Exultation is in the Knowing

rot+Birds+Murmurate

The hardest thing about writing

Used to be rejection but now

It is the crazy aftermath

Of question marks that appear

After I’ve left all my

Answers on the page

It becomes not a matter of quality

Or quantity but a matter of why;

Why does outside acceptance matter?

Part of me sees the old metaphysical ploy

I’ll get it once I don’t want it.

Can I walk into that room and

Switch off the light of desire?

Is writing simply a vehicle

In which to drive my persona

Stopping occasionally to mop

My sweat-filled brow and rest

My silly soul dedicated to

The business of ego?

Is that it?

From Watts to Ferguson

New York Times photo - 8/14/14
New York Times photo – 8/14/14

And this is what becomes of youth

Arm and arm with desire

Standing staunch facing abuse

Before a funeral pyre

 

Youth inbred with courage and past

Arm and arm with desire

Stand before weapons en masse

Falcons in loosening gyre

 

To see faces so young and unlined

Witness new history unfold

Is to know the past as so unkind

Lessons unlearned, agony untold

 

This is what becomes of a youth

Where bondage is original sin

Buried with denial at its root

As if the crime had never been

 

Not as if one turns a page

To find a new, happy ending

Black skin will always pre-sent rage

Some unfailing and unbending

 

And so our youths confront it all;

Our transgressions of the past

Those shot will scream and fall

As we parse a truce that failed to last

 

 

                                                 ~ Gwen Davis-Feldman

                                                    August 14, 2014

TEACHING THE UNPOETIC HEART

sunset text poem

Next week I begin my poetry unit

New students –  new approach

But what?

Only a few will admit

casual hook-ups with the art-form

Will my desire be enough

for those hearts who fail
to see the ‘blues’ in a Stormy Monday?

Do I want them to see me anguished & pounding

words into order

solidifying my life in

confessional meter?

Do I let them in on my secret

crazy spinning tie-dye history?

A history I have yet to mourn

Do I say my poetry

is simply my ‘other’ novel

or desire

repurposed?

Do I want them to hear my

cursing the last tea bag on this

cold March morning and the tiny

hole that allows Earl Grey to escape

into my oversized mug

 Warming my cold hands

this last cup – confirming

a short unit