I have broken the flow. As it stands, today, I am a day behind on Writing 201. Here is yesterdays assignment, better late than never.
Another day, another assignment. The ode, today’s (yesterdays) poetic form, is a longer piece with a more intricate structure, and is very much new to me. This assignment was another impressive contributor to my poetic education, I learned a great deal as I dived into the new and wonderful world of odes. I learned words like Strophe, Antisrophe, and Epode. Most importantly, I was fortunate enough to learn what an ode actually is. Needless to say I was , yet again, thrown well out of my comfort zone, and had my creativity and perseverance tested. I attempted to make this as much of an ode as I could, doing my best to follow brief. The prompt for the day was “Drawer” and out of my drawer I drew out, my journal.
Without further ado, I give to you, “Ode To My Journal” utilizing, Apostrophe.
You are never very far, you are stowed, to steal my mind,
still but never losing your zeal for holding ink.
We build and fill you wildly with every drop I can find
of the force that feeds my reasoning, soul and paper are linked.
Your have ledges bartered as ledgers for secrets I never told,
You have spattering thoughts bled from a struggle I couldn’t speak,
Of cumbersome weeks spent redefining my own being.
That silent vigil awaiting me, tucked in my tables hold,
is gold, it tips the scales of my mind, when tongue is weak.
You can picture every corner of me, without seeing.
For all your patient moments, so humbly poised, listening,
you have never spoken up to steady my ailing truth.
Your bathing in rugged strokes, ink on the page glistening
frustrates me, I’m waiting for something to set you loose.
I’m tired of your reminders, I’m well aware of the falls,
the fire that ate my bridges and landed me in despair.
You only talk in echo’s, you mirror my oldest prose,
summon your own voice, my mind has summoned its walls.
Your silence is suffocating, you need to feed me with air.
I’m tempted to keep you hidden, leaving your pages closed.
I’m troubled by burning prose, and unimagined mementos
you are the only aid that can save me wasting the fruit.
I’m furious when I struggle, when troubled by empty thoughts,
I appreciate your patience in all my written pursuits.
I’m a loose cannon of anger when words are hardest to find,
you’re kind and cope with tantrums, that take me out of my mind.
We often defy reason, with mine, your minds weaken the binds,
that tie me to the limitations of logic.
(c) Saili Katebe