I’m about 10 days into morning pages, and the first few days led to some angry, angry writing. This poem is born of those pages.
Your fingers are furious
across the page
words, unreadable, the pen no longer
a close companion
its pride of place usurped by the clacking of keys
Your fingers
the only part of you
that throb with attention
lax jaw
heavy eyelids
but your fingers
hold the weight
of failure
failed sentences undone
by the transition from your mind
to the page
failed lives unlived
from your plans in childhood
At ten, you wanted to be a hairdresser
and then a secretary
not understanding
that things of import
happened in backrooms, away from prying eyes
Do you ever wake up
with a list in your mind
of all the ways you didn’t keep your promises
not even to yourself
Squirreling away
the briefest moments for the work that lights you up
as though you are hiding seeds for the coming winter
How many hours do you give
to this world that dulls your soul
angry at both
the weight of your deeds
and the number on the scale
Tell me
What is your relationship with anger? Do you bury it down or let yourself feel it when it comes? Does it fuel your creativity or paralyze you?
Do you journal? I am shocked and a little embarrassed to discover how therapeutic I have found it journaling and might be a morning pages convert at this point.
“How many hours do you give
to this world that dulls your soul”? too many
I actually think I need to tap into my anger more often. There is much to be angry about. And pretending there isn’t is a certain kind of self torture. Plus, anger expressed clearly and purposely can be very useful.
Love this poem.
Love this, Noha. You're inspiring me to get back into a morning pages habit. I actually find I sometimes write best when I'm really angry? Ha. Maybe it's something about the urgency.