I didn’t write 30 poems in April. Trying to get ready to leave my job for two weeks and then spending the last two days of the month traveling added to the fact that the ghazal was driving me crazy meant not hitting my mark. I did write more poems than I posted, however. I had over nine hours of layover time between my stops in Seattle and Anchorage, and I wrote a little. So here’s the first poem. I started this one in the Seattle airport and finished it on the flight to Anchorage.
Oscillation Indecision is my middle name, up in the air. The road not taken calls my name, up in the air. What's the secret to choosing a path, staying the course? Choices delayed are a losing game, up in the air. Today I felt my mind drain, blanked of every thought: abject panic, time I can't reclaim. Up in the air. Everything I'm doing feels wrong, leaves me rootless, at sea. I need some kind of structure, a frame. Up in the air. If I, Stacie, could break this code, find clarity, peace. I'd be changed, never again the same up in the air
Even after letting it marinate for a few days, I’m no closer to being enamored. The ghazal is really, really and truly, not the form for me. I was so sure we would click because I love a form with built-in repetition … but no. Running head-long into a form I can’t take in is when I feel it’s most evident that I’m not a poet. Which is silly, of course, because there’s no generally-accepted idea that all poets must be able to write all forms. I mean … of course. But there’s something about hitting that wall that feels like being told to stay in my lane.
But I like not doing what I’m told, so … I guess I’ll keep writing these bad poems. See if I don’t.