I held off so long on posting this. At first because I thought posting poetry on a blog was, as my friends and I say, "cupcakes" (Yes, it can be used as an adjective or a noun. Derivation of the adj form naturally is cupcakey, but sometimes the extra syllable can get excessive).
Obviously, I got over that reservation about a year ago.
And then I wanted the timing to be perfect: when this poem would be the quintessential encapsulation off what I was feeling; the only route of expression I had left to me. The irony is of course, that when I wrote the poem, I didn't understand it. It was like IT taught me something I didn't know. And yet. I can't say it was the product of all these thoughts or feelings at the time for which this poem was the only outlet. It never hit me like that, and I keep waiting for it to and I don't think it will. And yet. It's always been there. Not hitting, but pulsing, perhaps. Or ringing, depending on how you look at it.
And so here it is. The poem whose name this blog bears. Not because the timing is perfect. Not because I even still care all that much about this poem. But because I'm feeling poetic but not enough to write. I'm feeling numb but not enough to want to feel. And so, in my laziness, you're invited to join me as I try to remember what is already there.
The Bell Tower
A crater’s birth was mine,
A hollowing of bone and sinew,
Downside-up, downside-up.
I only want to hear the pealing of bells again.
Yes, the bells have always tolled for me
A stranger’s story,
They call in diatonic scales to fill the gaps between my ribs;
between the true and false pairs whose job it is to protect the peace.
“Together”, the belfry cries, “together,”
Aware, as I am, of the spaces (air) between.
“Don’t you realize that the cage you carry in your chest
is no match at all.”
You might call me a bell tower;
I throb instead to make good use
Of such sound structural design.
Not all bell towers house bells.
And some bell towers have no belfry.
I only want to hear the pealing of bells again.
In the countryside, or in cobblestoned lanes,
On trains that distort the echoes
In my chest and make me catch my breath;
It’s something to feel the life inside the hollow.
Some days, I am the ringer of the bells.
Eventually defeated by the inertia
Of the back and forth that I began;
There I dangle from the ropes,
Follow up to follow down,
Or let go
Entirely. And I never enter
Those heavy wooden doors,
Nor pay the toll.
I only want to hear the pealing of bells again.
And oh, love, how you call
Like the church bells;
I never heed them
But just revel in the sound.
On a out-dated note, happy thanksgiving. I am grateful for a great many things. Things that if I tried to make a list of in my current state would probably end in me hunched over my keyboard and silently sobbing. (Because naturally I cry when I'm happy, haven't we figured that out yet?) Another post for Monstrous Liar. Another night. Note to self: start that list with the letter 'F'.
But for now, for tonight, I am grateful for the copy and paste. For this space on a screen I have that is mine to share and the people I share it with.
But especially that I have heard. The pealing of the bells.
Now off to bed with me before this sentimentality engenders some sick, mutant, sappy and-might I add-poorly written novel. Can I still keep some of my integrity, please?
