It is a dreadful cry that rises up,
Hoping to be heard, that comes to you
As you wake, so your day will be spent
In the futile correction of a distant longing.
All those voices calling from the depths of elsewhere,
From the abyss of an August night, from the misery
Of a northern winter, from a ship going down in the Baltic,
From heartache, from wherever you wish, calling to be saved.
And you have no choice but to follow their prompting,
Saving something of that sound, urging the harsh syllables
Of disaster into music. You stare out the window,
Watching the build-up of clouds, and the wind whipping
The branches of a willow, sending a rain of leaves
To the ground. How do you turn pain
Into its own memorial, how do you write it down,
Turning it into itself as witnessed
Through pleasure, so it can be known, even loved,
As it lives in what it could not be.
A fairly accurate rendering of my state of mind over the last few days.