February Rain
The Poem That Never Was (Sorta)
“Rain drops. Drizzle to be more accurate. Gray haze long since settled.”
This is the first line of a poem I started. It’s not great. In fact it’s pretty bad. It kinda makes me laugh. Who doesn’t love a melodramatic poem about February rain? You all seem to like my poetry though which is funny. When I put out that one poem that one time it was for lack of having anything more substantial in the works. Legitimately I had nothing else to offer you other than a poem I squeezed out at the 11th hour. This week I decided to pull the same foolishness but then I stopped myself.
“Heavy thoughts not so heavy. A depth, a richness, a texture, a moment.”
This is the second line. You might be asking yourself - what does this shit mean? That, my friends, is a good question. It’s a question I don’t have an answer to. It’s word salad that is void of any nutrients or value. Basically it’s literary jello salad. It’s sweet, airy, entirely forgettable, and might give you diabetes.
“When February becomes Februarys as the turning unceasing spinning never stop”
When February becomes Februarys?! This steamy turd actually made me laugh out loud. Like on one hand, is it deep? Is it about the unrelenting passage of time? Like how one month is like every other month is like every other month. Or maybe moments should be savored and collected. Perhaps they accumulate over time. In any case, there might have been something interesting in there if I hadn’t tapped out so early or if I was a better writer.
“Round and down, round and down. A heavenly journey. Sweet nourishment.”
So it was right around here that things really got rocky. Clearly. I’m still talking about rain at this point, just in case it wasn’t on the nose enough for you. A heavenly journey. What the hell was my childhood trauma? Why would I attempt to fill your inboxes with this? Am I implying that rain came from heaven? It journeyed to us from heaven? What would my local meteorologist have to say about that? It should have been a cumulonimbus journey or something of that nature. At least then I would have been factually accurate.
“There’s freedom in the sacred surrender. To Indra. To Asiaq. To Poseidon himself.”
At this point this thing has completely gone off the rails. Those are rain gods that I found with a simple Google search and have absolutely zero connection to or knowledge of whatsoever. I liked the sound of them. So like a truly wretched piece of American trash, I took something from not my culture and just shoved it into a poem. God save the queen!
“A harkening back to our watery origins. May we find —”
I know not what our watery origins are. Maybe I’m thinking about the womb? Or evolution. Who knows. I was in a poem-gone-awry stupor by this point. Apparently we were about to find something as well but I couldn’t tell you what. In either case this is the moment where I gave up completely and thought that an analysis of a shit poem probably has more value than a shit poem with no analysis. So here we are.
This is art.
This is process.
Happy Friday!