In my process of self-evaluation about my creativity and my goals, I’ve been a little frustrated by my desire to do everything at once. In considering a visit to MoMA tomorrow, I was thinking about how previously I’d based poetry on art, essentially working on both my perception of art and my skill at translating that perception into a different form. As I’m feeling almost a writer’s block, I’m thinking of returning to what was, in a way, journeyman practice. I’ll let you judge whether or not there’s anything of value in what came out, but this was a case where I know that I made an artistic connection to someone on the perception side.
During my college years, I participated in a writer’s group which met at a nearby bar on Monday nights, where there would be writing assignments, and our writings would be passed around and read by others (to encourage participation through a degree of anonymity), which proved to be a valuable prod (like an instructor-led exercise class) to just keep writing. Eventually, a regular Tuesday night poetry/music/art night was held at the bar, and on the third week, I was the featured poet. Later, I began to use Tuesday night’s visual art as my inspiration — a form of feedback that I could provide to the artist that went beyond "nice use of color" or "I really like the way you used collage" — I would write a poem that was either a transcription of what I perceived the art as saying, or that took elements of the art and my emotional response to the work and remixed them a bit. I’d usually just hand my notebook to the artist and ask them to read it.
One night, I remember a painting that grabbed me with both a profound sadness and an underlying anger. There was a ballerina in a drab pink tutu, stumbling through what I now remember as being almost dusty ruins of a great house — think Ms. Havisham’s from Great Expectations. I’m willing to concede that I may have even identified with Pip, both adoring this stumbling ballerina, and also feeling bitten and thus bitter as if she were the heartless and broken Estella. I should share what I wrote before closing out the story.
Ballerina
I want to catch you, to
reach out with open arms,
and carry you ’til
your feet hit the ground,
but I can’t
Or won’t, I’m not sure.
Once, you danced softly and gently,
pirhouetting into my mind,
to lift my heart, to show
it to the angels. Gracefully,
you showed me how you cared.
Then you left, and left me standing
alone at the door. For
a thousand hours, I left
the light on, so you could
find your way back.
You didn’t.
I waited still.
You didn’t.
I waited some more.
You didn’t.
So I locked the door,
and descended the stairs,
to the basement,
to die.
Now you’re back, wrists slit,
needing my help, pounding
on the door, crying for me.
You left me to die, as I must do to you.
Good night, darling, I love you.
- Anthony Ortenzi, February 1995
When I got the notebook back, it had a note at the bottom of the page. "My wrists are slit, but I’ll be back." When I looked up from the page, he showed me the scar on his wrist, and put his hand on my shoulder in a way that said everything. I was immediately humbled and honored by the power of the connectivity I felt.
I need that depth of connectivity in my life. It’s why I want to create. I picked up the music gear because I think it’ll help me find a way to connect through creative expression. I love it when people "leave it all on the field" — Ani Difranco being the most absolute example of that I’ve seen in person, and having seen both Ray Charles and Tori Amos absolutely lose it on pianos, it feels to me like music somehow can bring me closer to that connection than trying to write poems.
But right now, maybe I need a little creative tune-up. Every time I go to MoMA (it’s been too long), I visit my friend Starry Night. Maybe I should drop in, say hi, and find something to practice translating.
As always, comments and (civil) criticisms welcome.
While I certainly don’t love everything about this poem — I forgive myself youth both as a writer and as a person, as I was 18 and had just begun writing — I still connect with the emotions I felt at the time, and feel the same yearning. At that time, I was scared about not being as good as I thought I was in the math/engineering side, and discovering the confusing possibility of influencing peoples’ lives with my creativity. Lisa2 (I had three significant girls named Lisa in my adolescence/young adulthood, and I refer to them in my head as Lisa1, Lisa2, and Lisa3), whose smile is referenced within the very prose-y poem, had read one of my earliest poems and asked to share it with someone who was going through something similar.
I knew I was about to embark on a scary adventure, leaving Carnegie Mellon University as an engineering student, and go figure out who I was with this whole poetry thing. It’s still relevant, though I no longer fear the adventure — I’ve re-established my technical chops, and since they’re not going away, I can augment my life with the creative. The tougher part is that in 1994, as a broken-down soul, I reached out and exchanged inspiration with others in desperation. In 2010, with more confidence, I’ve got to fight the temptation to go it alone. I still need the smile.
Smile
This is the new story of a new tomorrow, one which, were it to come and
be joyous, would be one carrying roses whose faint perfume causes one to
remember how he had loved and lost, but with a glimmer of hope apparent
only to those who see it in the dewdrops upon its petals; and one which
sees yesterday not as just one of a continuing saga of days, but as the new
beginning which will carry all of us mystically into the future; and one
whose present shows us all how hard it is to cope, but shows us what can
be attained should we strive, in that truly good, but difficult to follow
manner, and lets us know that everything will be alright.
Ah, I caught her smile in flight, and it beamed a message of hope straight
through me, directly into my heart. That is where I find her beauty, in
her smile. It pervades my every being, and controls my heart and mind in
a way that no disdained seductress can. Where her smile leads, I will
follow, for it is my beacon in the darkness ahead.
The change is impossible to suppress, yet as I lift my foot to step ahead, I
cannot pull it forward. Its weight is not the problem, it is the need
for some constancy. Like an old oak tree, I am firmly rooted.
I must go, though. The road is stretching out in front of me, but I can only
see the tail lights of others, no one is returning from tomorrow.
I am scared. I have no place to go, yet I cannot stay. The fight is not
worth the cause, and if I were to stay, I would surely die of an empty
heart, and an empty mind. I lie here shivering, but I know that I must move on.
I am leaving. I do not want to venture forth alone. Please join me.
And don’t forget to smile!
2/23/94
Comments and criticism welcome.
This poem, from 1995 or 1996, was from a very dark and confused time in my life. I had a secret that I was too ashamed to tell, and I could feel the shame eating me alive. Ultimately, I believe that the path from victim to survivor comes from sharing your deepest, most shameful secrets, to be able to look to a freer future, and stop living in the past. This was published non-exclusively in an abuse recovery newsletter upon request shortly after it was written.
The Secret
The secret is safe inside me.
Fear has held it fast to my soul,
bound, melded to the structure,
a structure, sinewy and sanguine,
the lifeline of a million dreams
so light and innocent.
The secret is safe inside me.
Locked away in a hardwood shed,
doors nailed shut, dust upon the knobs,
a haven for those thoughts of death,
doing time for non-repentance.
Is the secret safe inside me?
Stress has taken its toll on the old man within,
aching muscles, tired joints,
and he’s lost his will to live.
The secret is safe inside me,
but I can never be, as long as it remains.
Comments and criticism welcome.