This is the poem I started writing yesterday till all the might have beens that never weremuscled its way out into the world mid-draft. I’ve gone back to it today & finished it off.
in firing range
despite insane frustration with inept governments : & debilitating rage at arrogant greedybloodhungry multinational corps’ ruthless relentless unabashed pillaging of the planet : part of me knows — i can’t really complain : for since that so long past : never forgotten : sunday : i too have failed to meet targets
failed to reduce emissions (though reducing consumption would be more benefit) : failed in every known dataset that supposedly counts : for something : in life : marriage : career : kids : success : legacy : wealth accumulation : financial security : et cetera : & : ad nauseum
for the longest time : failed to even notice i’d been trapped in a tomb : since the first of those soulharrowing three days : over three decades ago : the stone rolled back on me : unaware : unable to escape my darkness
the difference i suppose is my failure : has destroyed predominantly me : (with deepest apologies to a handful of beautiful people who were caught in the crosshairs of my grief) : whereas it is currently the world : being crucified now : & into the firing range : of the future
NB I'm really hating the new WordPress. It's repeatedly refusing to let me upload photos saying I'm not connected to the internet (even though I am & capable of opening other pages, watching youtube videos, etc. It's highly frustrating & causing the delays in posting.
This emotionally draining day usually comes along at some point during NaPoWriMo but not often this soon in (although I note I will have respite in 2024 when Easter Sunday falls on March 31). Best to get it over with early I guess.
It’s not quite tied into the Climate Change theme as, erm, intricately as it perhaps could be. That said it did come out of a poem I was working on which was more intensely linked … & you could argue that there have been a series of dates & deadlines that could have dramatically affected/lessened the potential clout of the coming temperature rise … so thematically there’s a connection … so … I’m gonna allow it! (Whew, I was worried there for a sec I wasn’t going to convince myself.)
all the might have beens that never were
today : mournday sunday is one of two : fallow days in every : whimpering year i allow myself : to truly : wallow
to weep deep : for my lost three : to wonder over all the might have beens that never : were
to let grief’s heat : blister through : the other mes other lives : other trajectories other doors : other : if onlys
all the stars that might : have burned all the constellations : that others : might have read : into that sky all the other pathways : all the other joys
This began as a draft in January. I have redrafted, edited & posted it today for obvious reasons. It is the first poem this month not generated via Word Games.
we live in a world, where, when a beloved famousity
dies, social media bloodbaths into a whirlpool : wailing
wallowing, teethgnashing, pedastooling, & deifying —
alongside attacks, assassinations & ruthless debunking.
since we have capacity to celebrate celebrity demises en masse, it has become de rigueur to do so : vehemently
& publicly with status updates & changed profile pics
alerting the indifferent world of your immense loss.
trolls rumble from caves, dragging into the light
their democratic right to demonise — reminding us :
fame isn’t bestowed solely on saints & that as much
darkness lurks under the skins of those we idolise.
meanwhile, the day-to-day tragedies go ever on, untweeted
— as do the friends, daughters, grandsons of those left …