Enough excuses. Here's what I'm going to do about it: per Alissa's suggestion, I'm going to post at least one poem a week here at Aravir Dais. I'll post anything new I write, and I'll post old stuff on weeks that I don't write anything, with some commentary to make things interesting for everyone who's already read them. Please feel free to comment, even and especially critically. One of the three courses that made my college education worth the entire sum I paid (and will continue to pay) was Joe DeRoche's poetry workshop, and all we did in that class was was to bring in a poem each week, and get specific on what we thought of everyone else's work. It was awesome.
This poem was one that I did for the first First Fruits artists' gathering I attended at the Boston Vineyard. I was helping put on the gathering with my small group, so I figured I should participate. It's a villanelle, which I picked because they're hard to write well. I think I proved that with this poem, which never came out quite like I intended.
That said, the poem is about my period with depression, which I had during most of elementary school and all but the last year of high school, and what became of it when I decided to really follow God with my life. It seemed appropriate because depression has come into my life in a few ways lately: contact with family and loved ones who suffer it, and also experiencing the "regular" kind (as opposed to the medical kind I usually refer to) when it was revealed to me that my favorite place on earth, the only place I've thought of as truly home since I was about fourteen, may be going away forever. But even in that space, God has proven Himself faithful, and given me the perspective I need to handle it well, without falling into either of my classic, unhealthy coping mechanisms: trivializing, disconnecting and dismissing, or becoming completely absorbed with it. The pattern this poem describes continues to be found in the microcosms of my life today, as it was in the most significant disease I've ever suffered, or been healed from.
Now, when darkness comes, I know her sound.
Hear her footstep tread upon the stair:
darkness lets me know that she is there.
Shadow's voice is muted, as with snow;
black lips whisper beauty, down below.
Now, when darkness comes, I know her sound.
Sweetheart of my childhood, newly found,
playful, uses fingernails to tear:
darkness lets me know that she is there.
Agony and chasm are her wake:
touch her lips to hear what she will take.
Now, when darkness comes, I know her sound.
Night will cry at sunlight on its ground.
I have heard her sobbing, seen her scared.
Darkness lets me know that she is there.
Now she tiptoes lightly by my door,
scared, so I can barely hear her footstep on the floor.
Now, when darkness comes, I know her sound.
Darkness lets me know that she is there.
This text © 2006 John David Robinson, all rights reserved. Duplication prohibited without written consent.
6 comments:
Alright, so I'm not great at analyzing poetry, but I do know what I like and relate to....and this I like and relate to.
BRAVO!!! yay. i have almost never written anything with any kind of form, so i applaud you.
i like this idea a lot. so much that i might do it too. but you have much more poetry in your arsenal than i do so i would probably run out much sooner. fortunately i also have more spare time and a more interesting life than you so that's my ace in the hole. although i suppose my armpits might not be as fascinating to everyone else as they are to me.
I had a class with DeRoche, too. Excellent teacher. I never would have enjoyed Sylvia Plath otherwise. hehe.
I hesistated to comment on your poem because I didn't want to get all "Lit Major-y" on you. I can tell that this is a very personal poem, not just a writing exercise. But I couldn't help it. This is such a good poem. The second verse especially is so vivid, and you used repetition really well.
Have you thought about submitting it for publication, John? My Soc teacher suggested that I investigate The SUN for myself. From what I've read of what they publish, I think this poem would go over well there (and they pay well, too, which is always a plus). I would really encourage you to pray about it.
Ha! Life is such a trip...I was just savoring a great glass of red wine and contemplating some of your aforementioned "old stuff", and I just happened to think of checking your blog in the midst of writing you. I seem to recall having read this previously, but I'm not sure...it doesn't sink quite as deeply for me as some of your others, but is quite good nonetheless, and certainly excels in beauty of form. Now, allow me a rare moment to gush...
"The right reader of a good poem can tell the moment it strikes him that he has taken an immortal wound - that he will never get over it. That is to say, permanence in poetry, as in love, is perceived instantly. It hasn’t to await the test of time. The proof of a poem is not that we have never forgotten it, but we knew at sight we never could forget it." Robert Frost said it, and as much as a few of his works are forever embedded in my brain, thanks in no small part to a quarter's worth of rehearsals of Frostiana with the NU choral society, I have found it to be truly applicable to but three poems in my admittedly somewhat limited poetic purview. The first is Dylan Thomas's Fern Hill, and to cut to the chase of a rather long-winded comment, the remaining two are yours, namely (How like my Corona...) and The Blade of Night.
Needless to say, I'm looking forward to future installments.
Wow, guys. Seriously. Thanks for the feedback. I will be praying about and checking into the Sun, and I will be posting more poems.
And, just curious-- Andrew, which Andrew are you?
Ugh, stopped checking the comments just before your response. My updated identity should settle the matter the of the ambiguous andrew.
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