Five Important Poems: Road Trip
Sep. 30th, 2002 09:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jakebe
Hey there, all...
As a slight ego boost to myself, I guess, and to kind of explain my poetry better, I decided to write down and repost the five most personal poems that I've ever written...and in my opinion, the best. If I have to write a chapbook or make some kind of portfolio or something, these five poems will invariably go there.
The first one, and the best poem I've ever written, is called "Road Trip". It was the first really long poem that I had ever written, and the first one that really, *really* featured any kind of symbological references. I dipped into religious, Freudian, Jungian and personal imagery to create the images and landscape around. There was quite a bit of repitition in it, and some of it worked and some of it didn't...I think I could have done without the repeating of a lot of things in Freedom.
It was written when I was coming out to my mother and the Jehovah's Witnesses in my congregation, and what was the inevitable result. It was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life, quite honestly, but even still it was one of those things that I probably would do all over again if I had the chance to change anything. The poem, I think, captures the feeling of the great discovery of figuring things out and forging ahead on my own path, the rising sense of collision and worry, and the feeling of weariness after the conflict.
Erm...I really like the way it turned out.
Man, I'm really turning this into a dick-stroking thing. Blah. So here it is.
1. Fork
We’re different, you and I.
Two roads, dual paths to choose from.
They are both somewhat difficult
as all roads are.
Which one do we choose?
We cannot decide
though you are certain
they aren’t so equal.
Two roads,
two destinations...
to where?
They both trail to some dark place unseen...
We’ve travelled forever together
as we swore we would do
but we cannot decide to agree where our paths lead
and you want to choose one that feels right
but yet it doesn’t. Not to me.
So there are two roads.
We shake hands and we choose one
to embark upon
while I sneak out of the back seat
and take the off-ramp
to the road not taken.
2. Freedom
Two roads. (Two decisions.)
You chose the straight and narrow (minded.)
I chose a path more scenic (because I’m happy.)
It curves with lots of trees (and high-flying kites)
holding the kites aloft in the sunset air (in red and white)
soaring above the bushy trees. (Tall, tall trees.)
The drive is pleasant (but far from trouble-free.)
but my car phone is exploding (Calls from you.)
with urgent messages of warning and woe. (Turn back!)
Turn back before it’s too late! (Turn now!)
But everything’s too pretty to worry (No regrets.)
so I disconnect the burning phone (Goodbye, ladies.)
and bear the fading desperation noise (Too much Nostradamus.)
while I continue to drive along (Could the Pope be right?)
the curvy road with the scenic trees. (Freud would be proud.)
The drive is so pleasant. (Wishing you were here.)
3. DNA
Two roads, my decision.
We’re different, you and I
and you’ll never let me forget that.
Voices blaze on the phone and warn me of
accidents and enmity and ambulances
get stronger quick and then fade
as we weave in and out of each other’s traffic.
Somehow we always manage to avoid collisions
and the blood and fire and ambulances
that would inevitably follow.
Weaving, collecting, coming, going,
waxing, waning, curving, departing,
webbing together and webbing apart
in the eternal bitter struggle for agape.
This is crazy, we cannot keep up.
We have got to
stop.
4. Overpass
Two roads.
A meeting.
Our cars parked
on opposite ends of an overpass.
Trees and meadows
are intermingling freely
in our differing landscapes of right and wrong.
Where are we going?
Same places, different scenes
but it doesn’t feel right. Not to you.
We meet at the overpass
and you use your best agape smile
and you pull out your Black Rose
flipping the gold-tipped petals (Repress your thinking!)
to tell me it reads that I must
repress the urge (Repress your nature!)
to go any further
repress the urge (Repress your sin!)
to see what else is out there.
It’s all about repressing. (Repress your kites!)
Repress. (Repress!)
Repress. (Repress!)
Repress. (You unacceptable fag!)
I look back at my car.
It is a twisted heap of metal and rubber
and there is glass everywhere.
You smile your wicked agape smile
and offer me your hand
but I just stand there
so you get in your car
and drive back
to your meadow-strewn road.
I am alone.
5. Highway
My road.
I am walking.
It has become a bit cloudy
and just a bit darker
since we met
and I am scared.
I do not know where I am going
and there are no kites flying to light my way
and I have no car to keep me company
but at least there are no phones to distract me.
Still, I am scared.
I am angry.
The bushy trees droop just a little more
crushed by your agape weight
and the maple has turned to tar
and I don’t know where I am going to sleep tonight.
Where am I going?
I don’t know.
I am cold.
I am alone.
I am scared.
I am angry.
I am hopeful.
As a slight ego boost to myself, I guess, and to kind of explain my poetry better, I decided to write down and repost the five most personal poems that I've ever written...and in my opinion, the best. If I have to write a chapbook or make some kind of portfolio or something, these five poems will invariably go there.
The first one, and the best poem I've ever written, is called "Road Trip". It was the first really long poem that I had ever written, and the first one that really, *really* featured any kind of symbological references. I dipped into religious, Freudian, Jungian and personal imagery to create the images and landscape around. There was quite a bit of repitition in it, and some of it worked and some of it didn't...I think I could have done without the repeating of a lot of things in Freedom.
It was written when I was coming out to my mother and the Jehovah's Witnesses in my congregation, and what was the inevitable result. It was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life, quite honestly, but even still it was one of those things that I probably would do all over again if I had the chance to change anything. The poem, I think, captures the feeling of the great discovery of figuring things out and forging ahead on my own path, the rising sense of collision and worry, and the feeling of weariness after the conflict.
Erm...I really like the way it turned out.
Man, I'm really turning this into a dick-stroking thing. Blah. So here it is.
1. Fork
We’re different, you and I.
Two roads, dual paths to choose from.
They are both somewhat difficult
as all roads are.
Which one do we choose?
We cannot decide
though you are certain
they aren’t so equal.
Two roads,
two destinations...
to where?
They both trail to some dark place unseen...
We’ve travelled forever together
as we swore we would do
but we cannot decide to agree where our paths lead
and you want to choose one that feels right
but yet it doesn’t. Not to me.
So there are two roads.
We shake hands and we choose one
to embark upon
while I sneak out of the back seat
and take the off-ramp
to the road not taken.
2. Freedom
Two roads. (Two decisions.)
You chose the straight and narrow (minded.)
I chose a path more scenic (because I’m happy.)
It curves with lots of trees (and high-flying kites)
holding the kites aloft in the sunset air (in red and white)
soaring above the bushy trees. (Tall, tall trees.)
The drive is pleasant (but far from trouble-free.)
but my car phone is exploding (Calls from you.)
with urgent messages of warning and woe. (Turn back!)
Turn back before it’s too late! (Turn now!)
But everything’s too pretty to worry (No regrets.)
so I disconnect the burning phone (Goodbye, ladies.)
and bear the fading desperation noise (Too much Nostradamus.)
while I continue to drive along (Could the Pope be right?)
the curvy road with the scenic trees. (Freud would be proud.)
The drive is so pleasant. (Wishing you were here.)
3. DNA
Two roads, my decision.
We’re different, you and I
and you’ll never let me forget that.
Voices blaze on the phone and warn me of
accidents and enmity and ambulances
get stronger quick and then fade
as we weave in and out of each other’s traffic.
Somehow we always manage to avoid collisions
and the blood and fire and ambulances
that would inevitably follow.
Weaving, collecting, coming, going,
waxing, waning, curving, departing,
webbing together and webbing apart
in the eternal bitter struggle for agape.
This is crazy, we cannot keep up.
We have got to
stop.
4. Overpass
Two roads.
A meeting.
Our cars parked
on opposite ends of an overpass.
Trees and meadows
are intermingling freely
in our differing landscapes of right and wrong.
Where are we going?
Same places, different scenes
but it doesn’t feel right. Not to you.
We meet at the overpass
and you use your best agape smile
and you pull out your Black Rose
flipping the gold-tipped petals (Repress your thinking!)
to tell me it reads that I must
repress the urge (Repress your nature!)
to go any further
repress the urge (Repress your sin!)
to see what else is out there.
It’s all about repressing. (Repress your kites!)
Repress. (Repress!)
Repress. (Repress!)
Repress. (You unacceptable fag!)
I look back at my car.
It is a twisted heap of metal and rubber
and there is glass everywhere.
You smile your wicked agape smile
and offer me your hand
but I just stand there
so you get in your car
and drive back
to your meadow-strewn road.
I am alone.
5. Highway
My road.
I am walking.
It has become a bit cloudy
and just a bit darker
since we met
and I am scared.
I do not know where I am going
and there are no kites flying to light my way
and I have no car to keep me company
but at least there are no phones to distract me.
Still, I am scared.
I am angry.
The bushy trees droop just a little more
crushed by your agape weight
and the maple has turned to tar
and I don’t know where I am going to sleep tonight.
Where am I going?
I don’t know.
I am cold.
I am alone.
I am scared.
I am angry.
I am hopeful.
