Ninja poet Maya Stein issued yet another poetry challenge! With reference to a wonderful poem by Jesse Valentine called Divorce and Astronauts, Maya invited readers to think of two wildly different topics and use writing to unify them. As with her previous challenge, she would feature a selection on her website. Not something I had tried before, I was intrigued to see what I could come up with! You can see my effort on Maya's website, or below. Like I said to Maya, I am not sure I entirely met her brief, but it was lots of fun to create!
Cephapolods in the Dust
Sold by turban wrapped men manning roadside stalls and imprinted on that very same red desert path we so carelessly drive down now. Where we conveniently forget. Unlike 500 million years of evolution who, despite being without backbone, do in fact have memory. And, it’s not even that convenient, since many thousands of miles were crossed to get us to where we are now. Truth be told (if that’s ever something we did), its anything, but convenient. And, as for forgetting, we both know that’s not what we are doing. In the same way we might shame it into being convenient, we can call it many things, but, forgetting cannot be one of them.
Three hearts they say you have. That really seems just a bit unjust given I can only ever have one. Then again, come to think of it, I have only ever wanted one. It’s for the camouflage you say. All the blending and shading. Cloaking those extra hearts. From me. From others. Mostly from yourself I suspect. Manipulations of light to attack the unseen and extract the inside out. Evading in that dark jet cloud pungent with the stench of both fear and power. The confuser and the confusee, if there are even such words to describe such people.
It’s inevitable though, trying to keep up with those three beats. You know, but you don’t believe, not really, or it’s not that you don’t believe, you just refuse to see. An error maybe. In the meantime we will keep driving to who knows where, doing to each other who knows what. Until as they say the dust has settled. Supposedly because in our case nothing settles when the question was never asked, or if it was asked, was returned, most definitely unwanted, and always always unanswered. So down our desert path we go and before long the red cloud is back. We point at each other, but as always our fingers are lost in the dust, and I wonder anyway what is it we are trying to know even if we could eavesdrop on each other’s silent words. Blinded by visions of what could have been, or maybe what should have been. But we didn’t know that those visions appeared on different days, saying different things, in different ways, to different people. And all I think is what would 500 million years of evolution make of that?