Wednesday, August 17, 2011

My Poetry Year: Entry #63

In which Your Humble Blogger comments on the pointlessness of forcing yourself to feel something only because you think it's what you're supposed to feel:


On a pilgrimage to a distant land,
Chicago, where we saw the holiday
Treated with professional elegance
And were meant to breathlessly consider
The expert drape of the garlands, the perfect
Spacing of the lights, the exact amount
Of whimsy that each glass globe tethered to
The trees could expect to capture. It was
Where I held his hand, although we were friends.
What did I know? It seemed like the right thing
For us to do, children of the movies
And '80s pop radio that we were.
Meanwhile, the planners continued to march
Christmas toward some standard of greatness
As if it needed the help, as if stars
Couldn't already be seen nestled in
Boughs and branches. And we stood awkwardly,
As if friendship suddenly wasn't enough.

* * *

This poem could use some fleshing out, but it might have potential.

Sometimes I wonder: Have we learned nothing from "The Grinch"? Often, in my experience, the events that carry the most meaning are the ones that need no foresight, planning, or scripted behavior.

That being said, would you believe that I've already written very rough drafts of two, two Christmas-themed stories this year? If that weren't sick enough, it seems that I can't write a holiday story that doesn't contain some horrible element, like child slavery or skeletons that strip the bones of living people who waste their food. I swear, I really do enjoy the winter celebrations!

Just not in the way that many others do, I guess.

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