About the Poem
Why is it so difficult to express how winter feels as you walk in the cold morning wind? I suppose it's the same reason why a touch is so complex to describe or, rather, why it can be put so simply into words. There are these paradoxes in life that need to be exposed . . . from both sides and from every angle. I believe this poem, written with more than one person, one facade, and one image in mind, is just a glimpse at how a "love" or a "hurt" can bring questions to the surface. I wrote "your" meaning me, I wrote "your" meaning him (whomever "he" is) I wrote "my" to bring all these images into my immediate world. Truthfully, this poem took some time to compose into what I felt was really real to me. After several rewrites, it just felt so true, it hit me so right, and I wanted others to feel as I did, getting kissed in a harsh corner or rolling cracked seashells in a palm. Not every image is complete but the touches I tend to give hopefully lead the reader to planes of their own. Lead them towards where they can connect to my words on their terms. "Stairwell Above Gray" is a perfect descriptor for a time in my life, here at college, where people were in and out of my days, my heart and my vision. I drew from several situations, sometimes weaving them into one to create, maybe, what I would have liked to have happen or what did in actuality. I guess, that's for me to sort out and for you to wonder.
Stairwell Above Gray |
| by Lauren Rosskam |
| Of where I've laid my head oceans wide with cerulean weeds, reeds and shells ones you can hear voices through tunnels unwalked shoes go unworn or worn out from dancing and thrashing covered, second skinned, in black, tight clothes your head filled with faces you swore you saw driving next to you three weeks ago from last year and where were we then? Clue searching with industrial strength magnifying glasses prescribed when you were so lost writhing turning images glaring staring back and you in the dirty glass mirror as the mascara runs races down your flushed cheeks and your towels show their years of just hanging and waiting for acceptance of being held your arm over my jagged shoulder, draping across my chest listening so closely for a message from ancient seashells swept up on the shore by angered tides and creations from my hands and creations from my eyes what they've been witness too the lines white, thick tempting, like lying in bed without you and not seeming moveable or posable standing in a corner kissing paying no mind to the other three walls ignoring their flaws and screaming perfections of your smile your olive eyes cliche it seems to put it down in stairwells of inkwells spilling, staining the minute grooves of fingerprint tips flips the mode of impressions into beautiful stark white rolls of mind paper just running (dripping) words as I lie awake my hand reaching down underneath the boat's bottom into the calm gray. |