By Betsy Love
I rarely write poetry, but every once in a while the mood strikes me. I was listening to a snippet of Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon". The imagery of the title and the mood of the music really hit me for some reason on this particular night, and I jotted a few lines down. I've rehashed my poem several times and this is the latest version. It's still in the renovation phase...but then do we ever really get it where we like it?
Camping on the Dark Side of the Moon
I’m going to pitch a tent on the dark side of moon
I’m going to lay out a fire of ash and rock and dust
I’ll crawl right in, cover my head, and allow myself to cry
I’ll not watch for shooting stars; they’ll only pass me by.
I’ll sleep through my absolvent delusion
I’ll not bear down on you, crushing forth lament
I’ll sit here on the dark side of the moon
Where I can quietly hide from your view
I’ll cover the mirror where you were once reflected
In my tent pitched on the dark side of the moon I’m not rejected
I’ll creep into my fire of ash and rock and dust
I’ll not watch for evening stars or meteors of rust
Even if we admit regret from pains we meted out
Where would we go from here when there’s really no way out?
So I’ll sit here in my tent pitched on the dark side of the moon
No one hears my woeful song so horribly out of tune
For an angel without a lyre can’t sing her truest song
And an unforgiving soul can never right a wrong
So I’ll sit here in my tent pitched on the dark side of the moon
And hurl a prayer that won’t be heard through this darkened gloom
A tent on the dark side of the moon is a lonely place to be
A tortured soul can still dream of things that cannot be
Is your tent right next to mine on the dark side of the moon?
Did you build a fire of ash and rock and dust too?
Isn’t it scary on the dark side of the moon?
Even if we’re here together, no light can pierce the tomb
Tents are lonely places where we can never trust
Especially ones shut up with ash and rock and dust
Well, that's a dark little poem. Nice imagery, though. Love the absolvent delusion and hurling a prayer.
ReplyDeleteWonder about that absolvent delusion. Is that Satan's tool, the whisper that there is no possible forgiveness for you?
Interesting too, the fire of ash, rock, dust--is this a penance image? And who was it that was once reflected?
Hmmmmm. Makes me think.
Poets rarely write, just to write. There is real-life experience in the poem, but it's still to painful to actually write about. So I chose imagery and metaphors instead. I'm still waiting on the absolution from another "party".
ReplyDeleteInteresting imagery, Betsy. I'm sorry for your pain. I am finding many of my RS sisters experiencing severe emotional pain. I am so grateful for the gospel and the tools it gives us to get through these trials.
ReplyDeleteOn first reading, I missed the pain. I simply saw myself on a gloomy day when I wanted to get away from everything--the tiring responsibilities, the pressures of everyday living, the demands of young children, the endless housework, the constant shuffling of time to make it stretch over more activities. I thought of tired times when the old rhyme came back: "Nobody loves me, everybody hates me. Guess I'll go out and eat worms."
ReplyDeleteBut my dark side of the moon is usually fleeting. Even a completely new moon has a visible lining, a defining point that grows more silvery each and every night. Yet, admittedly, I really only see it occasionally.
One of my shortcomings is that I don't seem to ever have feelers out to pick up on how others feel bowed down with the burdens that they bear. Somebody has to hit me over the head--tell me in no uncertain terms. I've always seemed to internalize the assumption that everybody else thinks, acts, and feels in about the same position as I am.
Yet I easily identify with Shakespeare's sonnet that goes like this:
When in despair with fortune and men's eyes/I all alone beweep my outcast state/ And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries/ And look upon myself and curse my fate./ Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,/ Featured like him; like him with friends possessed./ Desiring this man's art and that man's scope./ With what I most desire, contented least./ Yet, in this state, myself almosst despising,/ Happ'ly I think on thee, and then my state/ Like to the lark at break of day arising/ From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate./ For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings/ that then I'd hate to change my state with kings."
I hope I remembered this accurately. I'm too lazy to go look it up. I've pondered it often, though. Noe that Shakespeare never identifies "Thy". It might be another person, but I like to think of it being Christ who brings us out of despair and qualifies us to sing hymns at heaven's gates.
I know each of us can eventually work through all our dark days. Like a quote I heard, 'I never said it would be easy--I only said it would be worth it.' Thanks for reminding me.
Anna
wow, Anna! I hope everyone reads the things you and Betsy posted here. amazing!
ReplyDelete