written winter 2002
How easy is it words to play
In giving form to thought
To shape reflection in such way
As to reflect me not.
For though in melancholy speech
My words my mind reveal
This grief and joy so far that reach
Are not all that I feel.
For who gives heed to clear blue skies,
Who's awed by mid-day sun,
That act for life as happy guides
But thanks are given none?
But Dawn and Dusk, though brief and rare,
Or tempest raging near,
Leave all that watch in captive stare
In wonder or in fear.
So all the small things seem to fade
And daylight seems to wane
But though the storms through life pervade
Content my thoughts remain.
So now to one who reads my heart
Beware, as not to think
That since my pen my thoughts writes dark
Dark be my thoughts as ink.
about this poem:
It is an interesting thing, to be a song writer. I doubt most people have any idea how vulnerable a song writer becomes when he shares his songs with someone, either in song or lyric form. In many ways, what you're seeing is me, in the truest sense, with everything else stripped away. Performing my songs, I often feel like I'm completely naked in front of a crowd of people. My only consolation is that most of them have no idea how vulnerable I have made myself in front of them, or how truly they see me in that moment; as it were, though I'm standing before them naked, they don't seem to notice (quite fortunately for me).
At the same time—and herein lies the paradox—though what you see through my writing is a truer, more real, more vulnerable and open Me, you also see me in a very distorted light. For it is often easier to write on certain topics than it is on others. Love songs, for example, are one of the hardest kinds for me to write; for every one that I have successfully completed, I have thrown away at least a dozen more. And yet I would not have you think that I have never loved. Songs about God are even more difficult for me; though I think I'm getting closer, I have often found my attempts to be cheesy and forced. And yet I would not have you think that God were anything other than that around which my entire life is built and revolves. Meanwhile, many of the simpler issues of life, both joys and struggles, are often not of great enough significance, in and of themselves, to warrant a song; or perhaps they are simply not noticeable enough, and my skill is not great enough. And yet, is it not those small things that really make or break our day, week, month, year, and, when all is said and done, life?
Thus, though in a way you see me more honestly now, in my writing, than perhaps at any other time, at the same time you also see a very distorted picture of who I am, for entire portions of myself are left untouched. This poem, therefore, is a simple warning—to the reader, that you keep in mind that there is more to me than you have been given to read.
One last note, before I stop rambling... Of all the pieces—songs and poems—that I have written, this poem is perhaps my greatest source of pride. Only the second decent poem I have ever written—and even that is only if you count "Memory" as both a poem and a song, which I suppose you could—it is probably the only thing for which my assessment does not in some way depend on feedback, since it is usually difficult for me to judge the value of my own work. On most of my writing, some have said that I tend to be too suspicious of positive feedback; this is the one piece that no one needs to tell me if it's any good. And I make no apologies.
Oh yeah, and one last thing: I owe any poetic ability I have to Miss O (she comments every now and then on these blogs, under her first name, Sheryl). Before her AP Literature class, even simple poetry was as incomprehensible to me as the Japanese language; the idea of writing any of my own would have been absurd. Thanks Miss O.
And now that this has turned itself into an entire essay of its own, I will shut up now. I hope you liked it.
