Nocturnal//Backwards

Note


Below is a set of similar poems written for a university project in 2015. Every once in a while I will come across stories I’d written in the past, and will be publishing them here so I can have them all in one place. This collection of poems has not been edited from its original form.


Night
The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
because I’ve just woken up
and my day is just beginning.

I recognize that it is the end for most,
but is this why it is appealing?
Is it
the quiet softness of the night
that never ceases to comfort?

I’m not sure it matters.

It is in those dull evenings
when I wake myself
after they have all gone to sleep
that I find that there is still pleasure in
living alone.

After sunset
I can stop
and think
without the burning noise
of the everlasting summer.

Nocturnal

The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
because I’ve just woken up
and my day is beginning

It’s the end of the day,
is that why I like it?
Is it
the quiet softness
that constantly comforts?

In those dull evenings
when I wake myself
while others sleep
I find pleasure in
living alone

After sunset
I can stop
and think
without the burning
noise of
summer everlasting.

Backwards

The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
because I’ve just awoken
and my day is starting

It’s the end of sunlight,
is that why I like it?
Is it
the quiet comfort
or continuous ease?

In those dull evenings,
when I rise from the dusk
as others dream
I am glad to have
lived alone.

After sunset
I cease
and surmise
that the burning
noise of summer
lasts forever.

Tired

The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
because I’ve just awoken
and the day’s hate is over.

It’s the end of sunlight,
and that’s why I like it.

In those dead evenings,
when I rise from the dusk
as others dream
I’m glad to have
lived by myself.

After sunset
I stop
and wonder
if the burning
noise of summer
will last
forever?

Living in Winter

The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
at the dawn of my own day
the absence of light is born.

Sunlight is dead,
that’s why I love it.

In those tired evenings,
when I rise from my coffin
as others rejuvenate
living by myself
peels me away.

After sunset
time stops
and I contemplate
if the stinging heat
of summer
will ever end.

Nocturnal

The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
at the dawn of my own day
when the light’s hate
is over.

It’s the end of sun,
that’s why I love it.

In those tired evenings,
when I rise from my ashes
as others
rejuvenate
living by myself
peels me away.

After sunset
time stops
and I wonder
if the stinging heat
of summer
ever ends.

Backwards

The best time is sunset
when things start to happen,
when my day starts
and the light’s hate
has ended.

It’s the end of sun,
and that’s why I love it.

In those tired evenings,
when I rose from my ashes
as others rejuvenated,
living by myself
peeled me away.
After sunset
time stops
and I wonder
if summer
ever ends.

Backwards

The best time is sunset,
when things start to happen.
After my own day starts
and the light’s hate
has ended.

It’s the end of sun,
and that’s why
I love it.

In those tired evenings,
when I rise from my ashes
as others rejuvenate,
living alone
peels me away.

After sunset,
time stops
and I wonder
if the stinging heat
of summer
will ever end.

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In the Fall

I found another poem! Keep in mind this one is not supposed to be sad or strange.

The children laugh and
call out to one
another. They play
the games they’ll never play
again, inside the whirling cold
of this morning’s breeze –
occasionally dancing within
the sun’s glimmer, light
and warm.

But it makes them sweat underneath
the thick wool sweater that
Mom laid out for them an hour ago.

Their innocent voices jump in pitch
for every drop of their adrenaline,
and they shut their eyes to
feel the wind brush between the few
uncovered gaps of exposed skin –
between their knuckles and their wrists,
between their ankles and their shins.

And only do they gaze out again
once they feel before them stands a friend.

and it helps me think
and it helps me think

As I wrap my palms around my head
and lie before the daylight pouring
in-
-to this wooden box where I often
sit-
-and wait.

And then the voice of one tired kid
quiets down

And then the rest become like him

I hear nothing, save the sharpened wail
of the sparrow, of the bluebird, of the crow
and the churchbell ring – an hour later now

The firey light that the sunset brings
reminds me that I’ve not left this box

because I could think
because I could think

Ars Poetica

To lay in the dark,

without purpose or

prospect,

is to seal one’s own will

and to welcome decay.

The burning sensation

of boredom, which

squirms and burrows

in one’s skull is the precursor

to madness.

Yet, if one stops for a moment,

he can see his

slim and pasty fingers

flick and jitter and

ache and crave

the passage of thought.

All Of Us

To Crave Is…

To flail beneath the surface for air
inches from where blue meets white and
never reach the soft cool wind

To lie in a damp black room with
one window outside of which
a tiny stained bulb cracks and
snaps at you; your only thoughts
of how you haven’t eaten
all day

To breathe softly on a friend’s
back porch and stare
into the trees, listening to
the swarming insects,
finding mates and loving
their nectar, and grinding your teeth
because your nectar is
gone again.