I Wrote a Poem Tonight

It seems redundant to note, but I'll mention for the uninitiated that the fact that it's finals week means only that I will do simply anything else before studying. Tonight, "anything" became piano playing and poem writing. Both helped me more than anything else would have, I think.

Beauty. Art. Music. The ability to lift up out of the funk that is reality and touch something more exquisite than myself. Or, at least, to try. It's up there to attain. And that's why I can't completely throw Platonic metaphysics to the dogs (sorry, Dr. Ervin). I have to believe that, artistically, there are forms that exist that wait for us to attain them. I can almost sense it sometimes, though the closer I sense it, the more unworthy I feel as I attempt it.

My fingers are invogorated after plunking through Aida (note to self: must cut fingernails). My heart is happy now that I have written something, even though it's probably not very good. My soul needed rest. My mind needed peace. So here we are. And here it is.

seventeen miles from somewhere

seventeen miles from somewhere
in the sweet Wacousta sunset
they would drive, looking for “light
coming from a light,” bursting out music

air cool to the touch, fluid yet still,
wafting deftly from oak to willow to pine
evergreen moonlight with a hint of mist

they danced with water balloons and fireflies;
their breath was their own, their laughter full
and in the evening dusk grew deep,
a backdrop to their joy

if they could have looked into time as a mirror,
they would have laughed in its face:
death turned over
love lost
but never the joy diminished

some nights even Tulsa air lies pregnant
with similar sweetness in a soft, light breeze

and the mirror’s light
holds only the moon
in its sway

© 2006 Jana Swartwood