I am sorry I am very bad at using this blog so far as I believe I have just posted a blank page. Sigh. Very well.
I just finished the novel The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers which was a book I wished I had gotten to read in college as I have so many ideas about the different meanings I have taken away from it. I am working on an essay about all that as well as a list of the books I've been reading lately but a few minutes ago the title (The Heart is a Lonely Hunter) inspired me to write out a rough draft of a poem. Keep in mind this is unedited and I had lots of thoughts that the title conjured up for me swirling in my mind: the Hunter Orion, Valentine's Day, the literary devices used in daily conversation so that they are beyond cliche of mind and heart and what it means to have a broken heart and how this is not seen to be as serious yet matey effect our lives longer than what we call a “mental” (aka mind) break(down) and how does one effect the other as well as the two categories of mental breakdowns:Neurotic (in touch with reality, generally non-violent, associated with the feminine, anxiety, depression, anger turned inward, self-harm) and Psychotic (out of touch with reality, often violent, associated with the masculine, rage, paranoia, hallucinations/delusions, anger turned outward, violence towards others). So a rough draft:
These tomes read like
Tomb-stones etchings in
Sunshine fields held up to light:
An X-ray of hours and days.
The heart is a lonely Hunter
Perched hidden huddled in his blind
Was that what Orion was after
All this time?
The mind can rest,
Can wander,
Can dream
But the heart must stay inside
Here in the chest
And beat
And beat.
When a girl's heart
Breaks too easily
Too often clumsily messily
Her mind is said to
Follow and she is Neurotic.
When a boy's heart
Makes his cry and
Rage kick break his toys
The expression on his
Face is now Psychotic.
And us who wander through the remnants
Of smashed dreams pretty graveyards glass like
Glitter in crime scenes and let
Our hearts and minds bleed alone inside
Heads notebooks nightmares locked rooms privately we
Are known as Callous Empty Apethetic Vapid.
Yet in our youth
We were known as Wise Passionate Old-Souled.
Each year we live past that of
Precocious we are Broken
Hollowed out then
Filled with stories never
Uttered or forgotten
With a truth we have known
Always.
It is this they can see.
Our hearts stay lonely, broken for ourselves
Breaking for you.
Yet they beat still, and always.
No one guesses when we close our
Eyes in our cold empty sterile beds,
The beats they echo in our ears like thunder.
They beat the rhythm of the lonely
Of the hopeful
Of the Hunter.
Relevant Constructive criticism/suggestions/comments are always welcome. Hopefully I posted this right!
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