august burnout/
blocked september
.
.
sanctuary/prison.
this place in washougal
a 2 story collection of uncreative shapes
90 degree angles and straight lines
a setting so arbitrary
convoluted with contradictions.
an ever fluctuating current
where seasons wash past
in a hail of near identical days
flooded with hours spent
trying to spot the differences.
.
.
some days are better/worse
than the vibrance and nirvana of
a former version of
the very same summer from which
this (sullen and
exhausted attempt to
collect enough relevant words
and stack them)
comes.
.
.
i thought i had fixed my car
but my mechanic can’t explain how
a cold engine running on fumes
can overheat and burn out.
long past are such days
full of auspicious musing of
the state of expositions.
far buried are such nights
lost in romantic recallings of
the stories lived and living through me.
extensive is the distance
between me and myself,
and the energy demanded to
bridge such a chasm.
.
.
.
my faith in the
significance of setting
is fading.
.
i will miss these streets which
not so many poems ago
i didn't know.
the neighbors stay inside, the cars stay parked
these uniformed trees vibrate so bleakly
they know of me and that i know of them
caged animals which sing to each other
keep me company, feel my grief
at the edge of the pavement they wait to die
and dream slow wooden dreams
count the rings when they chop me down
are there many or few, were they muted or bold
or will they be composed of
90 degree angles and four equal lines?
may my flesh be too gnarled to cut into planks.
of death i am unafraid, it’s a life without creating that keeps me awake.
cruel and thorny is the maker who decided
that the vast burden of inaction would be
less crushing than the weight of unrealized art.
far above lustfulness & pride, alcohol & dopamine,
my most destructive habit is words left unwritten.
forever waiting for creative sanctuary where words flow like water.
when will someone come to take me far away from routine and writers block
from dresser drawers, posters, windows panes & shelves?
in the place i now sleep i try to count the right angles (a total of 79,920 degrees)
is it this box full of squares which keeps me imprisoned or
is it a self-centered romanticization of my flawed mind,
my obsession with inefficiency, distractions, and non-orientable shapes?
homesick for a setting not yet complete but
somewhere aside from chronic patterns of change
that may never be developed into 90 degree angles
this earth is full, but space is expansive
find me a star made from broken physics
find me a seam in the fabric of everything
or take away my telescope so
i can fall asleep on time, i have work in the morning
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Canary word: Present
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125,011 Literary Works • 672,841 Reviews
This is an amazing poem. First of all, your writing and use of imagery is so evocative. I love the way you use metaphors from math and physics . I really liked the sentiment that the narrator expresses: that they cannot be fully alive without being creative “it’s life without creating that keeps me awake”. For a poem about someone experiencing writers block, this is a masterpiece. There are so many stories and memories that this person is holding, and yet somehow they cannot express them. And that is their “prison” I think. Instead they have straight lines and ninety degree angles. I love the way you show their despair by the thought that the three dimensional complex creative birds in death might become nothing more than a deer of angles, completely abstract and lifeless. It is this loss of creative spark that the narrator is so afraid, because without it he is as good as dead. And then the ending is perfect. It’s pure poetry. The “ find me a star made from broken physics”. The metaphors are captivating. The narrator does not want perfect things - straight lines and mathematical formulae. Creativity means imperfect, broken things, like “a seam in the fabric of everything”. They do lot need a telescope like a scientist - they as a poet, need to fall asleep in time to think and let the imperfect world deep into their imagination, become that elusive setting that they have not yet discovered. I love the last line “I have work in the morning”. Then the reader suddenly starts seeing the poem in a different light - perhaps the narrator is in bed, it is dark with actual stars outside, and these beautiful musings on the nature of an artist and their art are the sleepy half remembered thoughts of a person in the cusp of sleep, that i between luminal state where two worlds meet. And they are tired, because they have work in the morning. That perfect practical twist at the end of this dreamy ethereal poem
Thank you so much for your review, i appreciate what you had to say! Just one clarifying question though,,, what did you mean with the bit about the bird and the deer? I dont have any animals in the poem so i couldnt figure out which part youre referring to
Hi Snorfus! Sorry for the confusion - these are actually typos ( should have edited a bit more carefully!) Bird was actually supposed to be being ( referring to your lines about the trees in your street) and deer was supposed to be disintegrating ( that they disintegrate in death into straight angles).
Hey, Luke here for a quick review!
So, I'm just gonna go through what I liked, then some of my own personal potential suggestions for improvement, and then summarise.
First, I never read poems this long. I have the attention span of a goldfish so most poems of this length I have no chance of finishing, but something about this kept me wanting to read, kept me engaged, so youre definitely doing something right haha. I think your poetic voice is stunning; the poem reads like an internal monologue from one of the most eloquent people to ever exist. I loved the motif of the slashes in the first half of the poem (although I do almost wish you'd carried it on). Clearly the gap between the romanticising of setting and its reality is central to this poem, and your imagery is really effective in portraying this, as the mathematical versus the literary. However, my favourite line comes from the final stanza, reading "find me a star made from broken physics." There's something beautifully and sadly poetic about it, it's just lovely.
In terms of suggestions dor improvement, you have my earlier one about the motif of slashes, but beyond that, I'd love to see more seasonal imagery. Thats what we expect from the title of the poem, and while burnout is aptly presented, I feel its somewhat lacking in August and September. Of course, subverting expectations is great but I feel like you could be really successful using this kind of imagery.
Overall though, a truly beautiful poem that was so engaging to read. Welcome to YWS, and I hope I get to read more of your work!
Yours,
Luke
Hey thanks for the review, thanks for taking the time to read it and leave your thoughts! I appreciate constructive feedback alot so thanks for including that too. As far as the slashes motif, it wasnt even intentional to do that so good catch lol, slashes are one of my favorite devices to use in poetry sometimes i use them without meaning to introduce them as a repetitive thing. If youre into it want to read my poem called February * or chasm? Leave a review (be harsh i dont mind) if you got time and ill review one of your old works too! Green room is cool for bonus points but sometimes i want more than one review so if you wanna do a trade let me know which one of your works i should check out! If not then no worries, have a great evening
Definitely, I'm more than happy to do that. I'm a little busy at the moment so it may not be for a while but I'll definitely get to reviewing them. Could you please review "hunger" and "Letters from an Unknown Writer" if thats okay?
Yes i gotchu!! It will be a slow process, i am not on the site too often but ill get to it i promise