Why I Write

Why I Write
By Talia Goodman


       Sometimes I wish I could be the ocean spray on a chilly winter night
aboard a Norseman vessel, or the chilling irony of a cold granite
prison wall or the lilting jabber of a peaceful ocean-grass prairie.
       Sometimes I wish I could be Man.
       But the sad fact is, most of the time I'm more like some
“Evolution-gone-awry” fish monster, heaving myself out of the ocean,
chocking and reaching desperately for that ever sought after imagery
on the far end of the shore. This is simply how it feels to write
sometimes. At that point I usually close my computer and watch some
TV.
       Sometimes I dream that I am a sky spirit, light-footed, leaping from
cloud to cloud with steaming words in my mouth, ready to pop out a
dieing prince over there, an iron-hearted sailor over here, or maybe a
tragic romance about a dieing prince who really just wants to be
iron-hearted sailor.
       But most of the time I'm just a dirty mutt trying to climb up a
cliff. I stand at the bottom, whimpering and running in circles, but
never actually get anything done.
       Sometimes I imagine I am god,
       stepping from world to world on giant pencil-shaped stilts as long as
the earth itself, etching my stories upon the ground I walk.
       But usually I'm just a girl sitting cross legged on the ground,
staring out at the ocean and trying to look like I'm thinking about
something really deep.
       I write because I dream that someday, every idle scribble I put down
on paper will be worshiped by the common man, and with every flick of
my hair another magnum opus will be born.
       Usually I just feel like a choking fish, but every once in awhile,
when I write, the words flow from my mouth, tasting of a rich pure
cream, and I'll think I almost, just for a moment, felt that godliness
that comes with the utter power of creation.
       And that is why I write.

The Six Seasons and the Way They Are

The Six Seasons and the Way They Are

  Author's Prologue: It always seems to start with summer doesn't it?

Maybe it's the promise of a better next time,

After each and every disappointment,

That keeps us pining for another summer.

Because in summer,

It's easy to forget

You're disappointing.

Summer:

Eyeless everevergreen dragons sweep lazily through the sky,

Showering amber stones alike upon the decaying and the spry.

No regrets for those they burn,

or those they turn to stone.

The half naked men and women dance and sing alone,

A vigil for the half starved children, 365 degrees,

And they give them candy,

Cold hard candy,

As they drain the blood from their knees.

Generosity that made this stanza rhyme,

Curiosity that got me lost in thyme.

A voice as sweet as yours that kept me falling,

Despite and because of my verity,

Summer, the season of careless and reckless charity

Autumn:

The plastic nymphs pounce in their lilting prance

Upon the wilting leaves,

Mourning the poor stupid souls crumpling underfoot.

They stuff them into their saddle bags

And move on to the next.

They only see the pretty colors and the pool of light

As the trees strip their children from their shoulders.

They don't even know

That life is love, and death is strange and sweet.

They don't even know

That the leaves are wiser than they.

They don't even hear

The leaves begging the branches not to let them go.

They don't even hear

The tree weeping softly,

Who knows it has to be.

Autumn, the season of ignorance

Winter:

Consumers sell their souls

To the Consuming

And the Consuming sit down at the table,

With their little plastic daughters,

Their face-painted sons,

And their price-tag wives,

With their trademark smiles.

With their copyrighted faces.

Crystalline cubes

And glossy fire

Glaze the stagnant landscape and

The little paper cutouts,

From all the old magazines.

The lucky ones sleep their lives to dust.

Only the foolish stumble on.

Red rosy cheeks, murmuring blue lips,

Veils of their lackaday hearts

And their lackluster minds.

I have to look at my reflection in the frozen pool,

Where the fish have forgotten that they aren't divine,

To recall why the icicles loathe me.

It's hard, in the frost,

Wrapped up in a thousand itchy woolen layers,

To remember that I am not beautiful.

Under the surface, a new world is born.

Where the coral dances with the seaweed,

And forgets that it is old,

Forgets that it is hard,

Forgets that nothing's right.

And I-

I don't know what to say.

Just keep faking it,

Pretending that I know anything.

One more day spilling words from my mouth.

Pretty thoughts.

Beautiful mind.

Winter, the season of forgetfulness

Spring:

Sitting on the bench in the forest

By the crumbling ruins of what must have been someone's home once,

I watch the last snowflake die on my finger.

And I can't help feeling that I've lost something beautiful.

A thousand little beating hearts, two thousand little trusting eyes.

Born just to close.

Shuffle home, hands in my pockets.

I pick the prettiest flower.

And I stuff it into my pocket.

To forget until laundry day.

When I will find it wilting and lifeless.

So full of regrets and forgotten promises.

Lather,

Rinse,

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

I wonder if it's even worth it.

If a thousand have to die,

To make room for one more.

And here I am again.

Sitting on the bench.

By the gaping hole full of flowers.

And I pick the prettiest one.

Spring, the season of false pretenses, and

All the things you forgot to mention.

My Left-Side Brain:

The grass, it only listens, but has no voice,

As it sways with the wind and bends

Towards lover's cliché.

It cries at night.

I know this because the grass loves me in my dreams.

The bird, it sings, and it's heart slowly dies,

Because it's words are fruitless and hollow.

I know this because a deaf bird still sings.

Ask yourself

Are you the grass or the bird?

Or the lowly despicable moss, which neither listens nor speaks?

Or are you the barefoot girl, white dress, running through a field of red poppies,

Hearing, but not understanding,

Speaking, but never heard.

Most people only know life is hard.

I've learned it,

While my third eye shed a tear and looked away,

While my fingers bled and my heart ached.

Turn left, harsh reality

My Right-Side Heart:

Look into my eyes,

What do you see?

A girls who's too happy, too silly.

And not a girl who has to tell herself everyday to smile,

So she won't turn out the way the charts said she would.

Look into my mouth,

What do you see?

A girl who likes to talk too much,

and doesn't know when to stop.

And not the girl whose afraid

That if she stops she'll never start again.

Look into my hands,

What do you see?

A girl who's to easy to like a person,

And not the girl who trusts over and over again,

Because she's so used to being hurt.

And who's learned that life's too short for hate

Even if you're surrounded by it everyday

Look into my hips,

What do you see?

A girl who's had a bit to much to eat.

And not a girl who's struggled all her life,

To be anyone but herself.

Look into my legs,

What do you see?

Waste and disuse.

And not the girl who was born without a point.

Look into my feet,

What do you see?

The same old pair of dirty shoes,

And not the calluses,

From all the time spent running from bullies and preconceptions.

Look into my heart,

What do you see?

A trembling whisper struggling to be heard.

Look into my heart,

What do you see?

A girl that cares more than she'd ever let on

Please just look into my heart,

And tell me, what do you see?

Turn right, insecurity

By Talia Goodman

  Author's Epilogue: I always like to sign my name at the end of the poem.

So maybe people will read it through,

And won't remember that it's not supposed to be beautiful.

Thank you.