Mywordpool

It is a pool.

It is not a drawer

or a folder or a book.

It is not organization.

It is open envelopes

spilled out over the floor

and I’m trying to sort

my mail – the birthday letters

from the love letters

from the bills

from the crap

that’s given to

everyone else

and is nothing

worth reading.

– it is a pool.

and not everyone

likes to swim.

It is a pool, but not

a pretty one, not an indoor one,

not even a contained one.

It is a pool of spilled milk

all over the kitchen table

and not everyone is

ready to cry over me

– it is a pool.

and I’m over here

on the deep end

waiting for you to wade in

so I can toss you the lifebuoy

I don’t have.

This is a slow drowning

process, relax. and breathe.

This is not the kind

of pool you swim in –

this is the kind of pool

you die in.

and I’m happy

to have someone here

with me,

but not everyone wants

that company.

This is my pool,

and there are corpses

floating in the water

but also rose petals,

and the last pages of

all your favorite novels.

I love my pool,

I love those who

have been there,

and those who

never left.

I am content to

watch over it

until every last drop

has been evaporated and

carried out into the world.

– it is a pool,

waiting patiently

to become

something else.

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25 thoughts on “Mywordpool

  1. The Pool is one of my solid, recurring images for what we do. I am immersed in this piece, in this process. You have taken me there tonight. Thank you for that.

    “Deepening into creative dream or deepening into the glorious illness of the creative urge reaffirms your ancient role as a poet.”

    This is from Chapter 1 of a wonderful series of essays I have just begun reading on The Rumpus:

    http://therumpus.net/?s=poetry+wire

    Dive deep, my friend. I’ll see you in the depths…

    1. Thanks so much, Johnny! It appears I have found my night reading for the next week or so – excellent. From what I’ve read of them so far, these essays have a whole lot of great things to say.

      I’m glad you liked the poem. I’ve always felt the title of my blog was weird, and I just wanted to explain my reasoning a bit πŸ™‚

      Natalie

      P.S. I love the sister poem you hatched out above. Must you always understand exactly what I’m trying to say? πŸ˜‰

Thoughts? I love those.

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