Two Hundred and Ninety Four

We resort to poetry when ordinary language fails us.  And it always fails us.  So does poetry, but in a different way.  There’s no way we can tell the truth if we don’t know the truth.

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

Whenever I read this, it makes me think of that spring day my mother first took me from my crib and carried me outside.  It’s not a memory, but the memory of a memory.  I wrote it down when I was old enough to write—but first I drew it, in stick figures—because I knew memories were all my family had left.  

A new child, born into an old family, stirred those dull roots with the desire for a new beginning in a new land.  But all families are equally old, and this new land is just as dead as the old.   

Two Hundred and Ninety Three

All I know, I knew in the beginning.

I knew my life would be bad, but not as bad as it could be.  Most people’s lives are bad, and pretending they aren't only makes them worse.  I was determined never to make mine worse by lying to myself. 

I knew there would be times when my life was good, but not as good as it could be, because I wasn’t willing to do what I’d have to do in order to make it better.  I was determined never to do anything for which I’d have to be ashamed.

I knew I’d always be alone.  We’re all alone, but not all of us admit it.  I was determined to live without illusions.

   So I've lived an ordinary life.  Bad, but not bad enough to kill myself.