Today I was told, ‘turning to poetry is better than turning to drink’.
I have always turned to poetry, to the words out there, words I chase through the cosmos, words that might help me make sense of my new chaos.
Today I want to put my alphabet back in order. I stalk the sounds made by snow. Sounds out there, beyond this window.
Today I want to restore my faith in the Fibonacci sequence. I want to count for pleasure rather than be another statistic of Nature’s infinite and incalculable cruelty.
Today, and every day, I repeat what I know and still it doesn’t make sense.
My friend says, ‘listen to the songs of the humpbacked whales. And listen to the diapasons of cats and frogs.’
He says, ‘listen to the human songs, their cries and denials, between clinks of bottle caps flipped from too many cold leers, to ancient hissing nightmares, to dirty little secrets, to calliopes used to scare our inner children.’
And so I listen, today and every day. I listen and repeat what I know and still it doesn’t make sense.
I listen to the roar raging from my chest and rising to my throat.
But mostly, I take my friend’s advice. ‘Listen to the poets,’ he says. ‘Listen to the songs crying from the human heart.