I feel passion in the fingertips. Words linger there, stuck, impending release lacking luck. I seek poetry for this passion, an unapologetic expression, evidence of the lesson. Yes, I've learned lessons. I feel the words at the ends of my fingers, the concept in the synapses, to give up is relapsing. So I settle for extremism, embracing the block against writing. Persistence battles resistance, kills it, extinguishes, sprouts the greenest infancy of ideas, sentences, magnificence, remembrance for the lost souls. Souls of years passed, yet still lingering, old, yet alive, alive in stories untold, unspoken, unarmoured, haunting and harming, seeking redemptive chances but unanswered so they sit, fleshless and pale in piles by the thousands and covered with dirt, soil radioactive, trancending energy of hate, redemption awaits, fatefully late and elusive. Wounds, weak, still grow new skin, thin and unfitting, scar-like with stories, stories of famine, of bones by the thousands, of hunger for nourisment beyond sustenence but for food of the familial kind, hunger for answers and for questions of younger years, when culture was definitive, bones were fitted in skin, skin without scars and simply smooth, moveable, free for individuality, diversity, never deformity and fate. Healing happens slowly with small seedlings of the inevitable, intangible, illusory and transient, mysterious, murderous, queietly pervasive and emitted from the bones.
So I had major writer's block when writing a paper about the Cambodian Genocide. After watching the Killing Fields I came up with this poem, then the paper, and in the end an A+ =)
Whew, glad the semester has ended. Now time to celebrate with summer =)
