Tag: poem

What should I do with my life right now? (Part 1)

EvaLeave a comment

Hello everyone,

This weekend I went to the Big Water Film Festival in Ashland, Wisconsin, as the film I worked on made it into the festival. Long story short, I forgot all about my money-making job (which doesn’t pay me what I’m worth and doesn’t allow me to utilize my strongest skills) and fell completely head over heels back into my creative brain. I breezed through conversations, initiated debates, made people laugh and included every person in our group into all of it. I experienced what it truly means to be in my element. I was among my people: creatives with ideas.

And now it’s Sunday night. I’m faced with the dread of returning to a job that kills my soul. For most of us, it’s a familiar feeling. Somehow by returning to work tomorrow, I feel that I’m letting myself down. What is my true potential? I should be questioning everything around me, making art in whatever medium I want. I should be playing.

This isn’t an idea that generates much sympathy. After all, in Corporate America, a balance of work and play is the formula for happiness. This idea has poisoned American workers for generations.

Work and play. How about work that feels like play? Play that is actually work? Something actually enjoyable that stimulates your mind and brings your inner strengths to the surface on a daily basis? That sounds like my type of job.

This isn’t an argumentative essay about the realities of “work”. Rest assured, it’s about me. Maybe you will find something useful in my anxious, panicked rant.

Current Equation
Work + Play = Balanced life.

My Equation
Play + Time = Balanced life.

Here’s the thing.
I have so many ideas addressed to my attention
coming from a place of panic.
I don’t have to change the decade to feel I’m being bold.
2017, you see me at my parent’s house
forced to invent my own job.
I should record poems and put them on bandcamp,
quit the bosses and publish a book,
get on stage with my violin -> give everyone some music
whether they wanted it or not.
Where did the idea that work is not enjoyable
come from?

To be continued.

Re: Housman

EvaLeave a comment

I to my perils
came not like A.E. Housman
“clad in armor by stars benign”
I swam to them in my PJs
hair kinked, water logged
and trouble was a bonfire.

Trouble was the thing he kept his mind on huh
Trouble was the thing he took to supermarkets
hoping This was the day
right by the spinach
he could be a true and worthy victor
‘cause his mind was in the game.
Did he want to prove himself stronger than us
the mortals who wished for everything sweet

I wished too hard for time to pass
and passing is the great gift and curse of prickly knees.
I tugged myself through marshes by tufts of leg hair
to which I gleamed a shining eye to Hope
I’d not trifle with a fleeting love
or luck money or mock fame.

Turns out every part of me is mortal fool,
and Housman, he’s under the stars
Hands behind his head, grinning
because he left out a stanza.

From the Notebook: King Arthur was a Tragedy

EvaLeave a comment

“In the age of romance and chivalry, steam seeped through open hearts now it’s a gas leak up the nose and on fire. Love is now combustible. Love is now the library. Love is now the golden gilded spine of ancient text.

July 1st 2017.”

like: “love is now the library”
dislike: “ancient text”

Here’s the new version. As you can see, I’ve added a title and altered the imagery. This poem did not undergo a heavy edit, and that’s okay. Sometimes, I write a long poem only to keep one or two lines, or images, or ideas. Other times, like in this case, I keep it mostly the same.

King Arthur was a Tragedy
In the age of romance and chivalry
steam seeped through open hearts
now it’s a gas leak.
Up the nose.
On fire.

Love is now combustible.
Love is now the library.
Love is now the golden
gilded spine of mildew books
that bury in your head
songs and hatchets alike.

Eva

A.E. Housman notebook poem

EvaLeave a comment

It’s been a while since I wrote here and I’ll tell you why. JOBS. Two of them.

This is newly written, and like my earlier stream of consciousness poem, I took a whole page and threw out some words.

here’s a legible version:

I to my perils
came not like A.E. Housman
clad in armor by stars benign.
I swam to them in my PJs
water logged, hair kinked
and trouble was a bonfire.
I was the mosquito and the jet was my blood meal.
Whoever shaved before 8th grade wished too hard for time to pass
and passing is the great curse and gift of prickly knees.
I dragged myself through marshes by tufts of leg hair
to which I gleamed a shining eye to Hope
I’d not trifle with a fleeting love
or mad money and me, the poet,
the victim of my own desires.
If I was a better friend, the last line
would have been my own design.