Megan Porter Poetry

I keep hoping

pressing a spyglass into the hollow of my eye socket

that I can see through opacity

What are we looking for?

Is it the act of looking that draws us,

keeps the mind from the relentless rocking of rhythmic waves

surrounding us

How easy it is to tire of today’s problem solving

How easy it is, though I can barely maintain my footing,

to need, to try, to see the future through a capped lens

An eternal wanderer, (but) I need to know if I am going to end up somewhere someday

Otherwise, why keep going?

A cynical optimist, (and) I cannot bear thoughtless half measures anymore

If there will be no safe place to wash up on your shore

Just cut me loose

With thanks and reference to Lord Byron and an apocryphal 18th century suicide note

Dear Friend

I grow weary

of all this packing and unpacking—

what else remains of life?

I’ve been tidal-locked for sure

floating around in circles

Anchors pulling from some unfathomable depth

checking my movements

Why don’t you see, this scattered debris, surrounding me

just keeps me here?

I’m letting go of this material waste

to see what matters

Out here—alone—nothing ever happens

A dream is only a dream if you wake up

I won’t risk clinging to a single thing

I’m releasing your chains

and if I sink

or float out to open sea

I will face these dangers

to see who matters

Life’s Beauty is the art of letting go—

I’m constantly throwing away my fine line pens

before they run out of ink

I press them down, the nub disappears

metal scrapes across flaking pages, ink sputters out

I buy another; next time I’ll play the part better

—of an ideal

I’m in love with the idea of you

Guess you know it’s true

I know I’d love the real you too

Hope you know that’s true

—of lyrical genius

It’s so easy to reframe pains as a character-building gallery wall

the progression ethereal, immortalised, for the world’s eyes and mind

for we are Curators

picking what is presentable, placing carefully, choosing correct light and shadow

the mess of people flock in

and we stand aside and try to let them think and feel how they will

—of control

Decide. Decide. Decide. Decide.

Oh, what would we do if there were no wrong answers?

—of everything

I think others find it a bit alarming,

how quickly I clean the slate

I am an artist who carefully peels away the day’s paint from the canvas before I sleep.

from shallow lines, whisper touches

to deep valleys, pressed almost through to the other side

all taken care of, with the gently purposeful hand of a new mother.

all taken care of, with the gently purposeful hand of an old daughter.

It’s better this way;

I keep myself perpetual in the sterile white hands of a new day