Pure As Soil

The Waking by Theodore Roethke

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.


Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

I killed myself the other day.
It doesn't matter how.
There was some blood, there was some pain,
But that's enough for now.

What matters was my fatal reason.
It wasn't really sound,
To commit that awful treason,
That placed me in the ground.

I started with that first bleak tear,
That trickled down unchecked.
It's origin was sad black fear.
I knew my life was wrecked.

The drugs had been a bad idea,
My brain wasn't quite right.
After that slight speed overdose,
I knew not day from night.

The age of darkness followed then.
My heart began to die.
Both blade and fire pierced my skin.
My cry was but a sigh.

Through due process my soul was charred,
Methodical and sure.
My mind was fucked, my body scarred.
Not one thing left was pure.

How long has this pool been here?
I have never seen it in this place before.
It has to come from somewhere.
Like a weary sailor washed upon the shore.

The branches may have kept it hidden.
Guarded it from general sight.
Until I came walking through the wood.
On this warm and sleepless night.

I can see the stars shining there.
Between the reflection of the trees.
They play pick-a-boo, the stars.
As the pines sway with the growing breeze.

The water smells dank and musky,
Like decaying leaves on autumn earth.
I am reminded of old cemeteries.
The peaceful scent of heavenly birth.

The moon illuminates my uneven path,
Glinting off of a handful of scattered stones.
A nice round weight that fits easily into my pocket.
They are the blinding white of sun bleached bones.

My feet slide readily into the mud,
As I wade gently into the unknown depth.
Slowly liquid surrounds me in oblivion.
The lift of burden takes away my breath.

As I slip downwards and the sky slips away,
I have a thought so maudlin I can't help but smile.
When next a midnight traveler comes upon this place
With sluggish curiousity to stop and stay awhile,

"How long has this girl been here?
I have never seen her this in place before.
She had to come from somewhere.
This broken body washed upon the shore."

I circumnavigate the room from my chair.
My tears trickle down and form steps in the air.
Step by step I take myself away.
Nothing here could compel me to stay.

I climb higher than ever before.
Taste escape and crave for more.
I leave my seat and take the stairs.
Shed my body and drop my cares.

Now everything is shiney and new.
Covered with sun, sparkling with dew.
The future is bloated with hope,
And there is more at the top of the slope.

The climb is short and the fare is free.
The only sacrifice made is me.
My hand is unsteady, my fingers bleed.
My heart splits open like a barren seed.

Uncertainty pours out like a river.
Shadows fall across my face and I shiver.
Where is the sun? Where is the dew?
It's no longer shiney and I can't see the new.

The stairway crumbles into black dust.
It mixes with my blood the color of rust.
Tremors shake the mountain as I fall.
Everything is gone, I've lost it all.

It's been a while since I've written a poem worth reading. -->Working under the assumption that the others were worth reading. I enjoyed them. :D

Anyhow. The point is, it's getting harder and harder for me to write angsty poems. The present angst in my life doesn't seem poem worthy, therefore I propose that we experiment! Yes, a new form of poem shall be tried.