The Stethoscope: a not-so-Christmas poem

I have been in a poetic mood lately. Sometimes I try to resist this fact because everything I come up with seems to originate from the same vein. It's getting a little old. Real old, in fact. This is precisely why I need to travel more, read more, and forget less. Now, I'm not sure about the whole blogging my poetry thing. This blog's namesake still hasn't been posted and I feel like that should come first. But what the heck, I'll get crazy and mix things up a bit.

I wrote this this morning.

(As a side note, you know, I think we need to reinvent certain aspects of the English language. Like the usage of demonstrative pronouns.Proposal: if you are using a demonstrative pronouns that is also a complematizer or if you are using two demonstrative pronouns, there should be a dash between the second demonstrative pronoun and its noun. So that this sentence would read "I wrote this this-morning". And the sentence,'Don't forget that that cat has really sharp claws' would read 'Don't forget that that-cat has really sharp claws'. Because really the nouns in their abstract senses are "this morning" and "that cat". I recognize that I am a huge nerd and that no one cares, but we should think about it anyway.)

And so here's the disclaimer: I know that this has nothing to do with Christmas. Not even winter. But actually it's kind of the versified brain child of my last post, which is why I'm posting it here.

All the same, Christmas was wonderful. I hope yours was as well. Joyeux Noel.
(Yeah, I just stuck that there to make a rhyme. What did I tell you: poetic.)


The Stethoscope

Living happens quietly

like the stealth of breath into the lungs

and diffused, unseen, unheard into those small rooms

from whence something else emerges.

Like the roll of the sea, like rock eroding to sand,

or a raindrop that cuts through a summer breeze.

Like the heart and its whispering.

Quietly.


But life happens in the beating of a heart, the pounding

throbbing, music beginning: sound.

And it’s not a pretty sight,

our coming into this world; desperate, wailing.

Loud.

Exert, and the breath gives itself away,

sometimes gets caught in the chest,

sometimes frantic to get out.

And the roll of the sea can become a roar,

a crashing of foam on boulders,

or a torrent that thunders while winds howl.


Measured breath, measured beat;

sometimes living happens suddenly.

For all of our planning, life can abrupt and exert,

immerging us in its sounds;

not always a pretty sight

but a delicious, deep, resounding call.

from whence something else emerges.

Yes, love can happen quietly.


But I,

I am no whisperer.