I must be in a poetic mood. Here is another short (two-stanza) poem I penned yesterday:
Brother’s Keeper
My mouth bespeaks my silent voice,
Muffled in my mind:
An unrelinquished insight
Strangled, choked, and left behind.
So help not spoken was not heard,
Hidden by my fears:
You’ve done it now, you sinner.
Quoth the ringing in my ears.
(Latin definition: imagination ; Greek: apparition)
By Melanie Anne Phillips
I saw a shadow in my house
And then it disappeared.
But in that moment, manifest,
Was that which I most feared.
For reaching deep within the folds
That house my spectral mind,
The shadow cast a ghastly light,
On self-awareness, blind.
And suddenly before myself,
I played the role I lived.
As to this captive audience,
My inner self was sieved.
My real motivations now,
Stepped forth to center stage:
The false pretense of kind concern,
The hidden selfish rage.
This horrid confrontation play,
Scorched blisters on my soul,
The ashes are my true estate,
My spirit dark as coal.
And smothered by the smoldering,
A Phoenix without wings.
It formed an embryonic id:
Most innocent of beings.
Flightless, as it lays there writhing,
Beneath the angry sky,
Yet through rejuvenation,
It cannot hope to die.
A miracle, a manacle,
A never-forming shape.
My life behind; my life ahead
The common noble ape.
At risk of all eternity,
In fear of none at all,
I saw the shadow reappear,
And heard its plaintiff call:
“The choice is yours; the choice is ours
To change or stay the same.”
Hearing now between its words,
I knew its Holy name.
Familiar spirit, that was it,
A near and distant elf,
A sprite I seldom see full on:
My inner shadow self.
Our lives are long, our time is short,
The end is always nigh.
May you be blessed, as I was blessed,
To live before you die.
This is one of the poems I’ve written over the years. I’ve set many of them to music, or wrote the music first and then the words. But some of them, like this one, have stood alone (so far).
This particular poem was conceived as an exercise is using all four perspectives (I, You, We, and They) that are central to the Dramatica theory of narrative structure that I developed with Chris Huntley.
Yet, from this rather pedestrian motivation, a rather fascinating poem emerged, I think.
By Melanie Anne Phillips
My emotions are dead
and lack any resistance
to the onslaught of logic’s
relentless persistence.
I’m malleable, movable,
flexible, still.
I succumb with aplomb,
as I alter my will
to conform to the pressures
that weigh on my soul
without motive, or method,
opinion, or goal.
They reach for the stars,
as they stand on our hearts,
and they sell us off piecemeal,
parcels and parts.
They slice us to mincemeat
and padlock the door,
while our blood runs quite freely
through holes in the floor.
But nothing is wasted,
tho’ everything’s lost.
So our blood is recycled
to offset the cost.
We huddle in darkness
yet shy from the fire
to howl at the moon
with the rest of the choir.
And when the glow wanes,
we stoke it with dreams
in hopes that the crackle
will drown out our screams.
You sleep in your bed
and you doze in your chair.
Your cushions are comfy
and so is your air.
But your heartache grows heavy,
as well as your head,
‘til you nod away, nod away,
nod away, dead.