Today a novelist dies a poet
a grief poem
[From Jawanza on the writing process: Below is a poem that was originally shared out as a video on Instagram! To watch, go the link below. The prompt around grief was intrigue, as it asked myself as a writer how vulnerable I wanted to make this piece, and after an initial attempt, I stopped, unhappy with the surface level ideas and ruminations, and decided to go deeper, to find vulnerability within myself, and to utilize that in a piece, and that prompt resulted in this poem. Although it stands alone, the poem is a part of a longer short story that I had been chipping away at for years, and the incorporation of this poem ended up being the missing piece needed to finalize the story. For now, here is the poem - happy reading/watching!]
Today a novelist dies a poet
Prose propelled purpose
Whenever, wherever, with the whittling wordsmith
But my rhythm and my melody cannot be sustained,
Throughout all that I’ve pained.
My love tumbles through my…
…through my…
My words, my tone, my mind is missing what’s mine.
What is still mine?
What is left behind?
What sets my sons apart,
I cannot mend.
My reflection I forecast for my daughter,
I cannot send.
I join one sister,
As I leave another.
My stories live on,
Not just as a mother.
My rhythm cannot sustain, my melody may never remain.
My many memories may maintain my mind’s missing…
…missing…
…missing…
…so much is missing.
More than I thought.
Mangled mind too fraught
I see what is left of me
I hear my voice, depletingly
I feel nothing like me,
All my stories and histories
All hollowed out of me.
Isolation prevents
the desolation
as pity proceeds
preservation.
My Love is my lifeline
He who can still carry my pen
He who can bring barren beauty within
And he who will carry my voice
Until my last breath’s end.
Dying is disjointed, especially for the novelist, finding that their words have turned from prose to poetry, prophetically displaced.
Missing my mangled menagerie of…
My mind?
My melodies?
My memories?
I am messily missing my…
…missing my—
Prose propelled purposeless pain
Wherever, whenever, while the whittling wordsmith wept
Remember my rhythm,
dearest daughter.
Muse my melodies
together my sons.
Retain, sustain, and maintain,
my love,
My Love.
Today a novelist dies a poet.