PAUSE (AN AMERICAN SENTENCE)

"The Pale Horse," watercolor, India ink, gouache, iridescent calligraphy ink, 2020, by Troy's Work Table.

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PAUSE (An American Sentence)

The once cavalier have quieted
and the quick of tongue gone silent.

© 2020 Troy's Work Table Publishing

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Prior to the plague that descended upon us, I was exploring the poetry form of the American Sentence. It's a form that was invented by Allen Ginsberg to free the Japanese haiku from its syllabic line structure in English, since he felt the form didn't translate well from one culture/language to another. But he wanted to keep the spirit of the condensed form, so he landed upon one sentence of seventeen syllables, with whatever line form the poet felt worked best, typically one line.

So, here I am trying to process whatever is happening around me right now. Trying to grieve when others tell me to find the joy in the midst of this shit. Trying to find a way to scream on the page as an act of catharsis and release and healing.

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On social media, there was a female poet belittling male poets she felt were romanticizing COVID-19, death, social distancing, and the associated themes. I went and read some of the poems of which she complained. There I did indeed find death. And lamentation. And fear.

I wanted to shout at her: "Fuck off!" Instead, I took a break from social media.

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I know that we all process things differently. Which is why I need to avoid the optimists. And the joyful. And those looking to put a bright spin on what feels grim and dire to me: you can all "Fuck off!"

Because I'm not telling you how to process. I'm not telling you to be realistic. I'm not telling you to mourn. To cry out. But it feels that you, the joy-filled, the optimistic, the "glass half full" people are often the ones trying to prescribe to others how to behave. Don't tell me to wear a smile or cheer up when others are dying, losing jobs, struggling to shuffle through the day, suffering. Move through life with your joy; I'm glad that you're able to do such. But let me sit in ashes and sackcloth and watch the world shrink around me. Let me sit in quiet and prayer. It's how I'll make it through to another day.

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Strangely enough, I take comfort in putting one of the horses of the Apocalypse down in ink. Here comes the pale horse, albeit without its rider, Death. I take comfort in noticing a somberness and solemnity move across the nation as a whole. A shadow. It let's me know that I'm not the only one feeling the gravity of the moment. The grave.

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I'm hoping that this time of Good Friday come early in Lent, lingering, and its attendant Crucifixion, will bring about a glorious Resurrection. But I'm not there yet. May God have mercy upon us. May God walk alongside us. May God roll away the stone.