Category: Prose Poetry

  • Audience Of One

    Audience Of One

    Je réfléchis à une idée. Une rime. Une histoire. Je suis très heureuse de le partager. Je suis l’auteur avec une machine à écrire. J’écris les mots. C’est le bordel. Je l’écris à nouveau, encore et encore. Je l’améliore.

    Je regarde la poubelle au loin. Que vont penser mes amis de moi ? Et mes collègues ? Mes cousins ? J’ai lu mon texte pour la millionième fois. Je vais déjeuner, mais je pense toujours à mes paroles. Quelle est la meilleure façon de dire ceci ? Quelle est la meilleure façon de dire cela ? Est-ce bon pour les oreilles ? Je sais pas ce que je fais.

    Je regarde l’horloge et cela fait treize jours, mais mon texte est toujours le pire.

    J’entends une voix du public. « S’il te plaît, viens dehors avec tout ce que tu as. »

    Attends, tu es sérieux ? Je prends mes papiers et je cours au front. Mais je m’arrête et je regarde à nouveau tous mes textes. Je m’assure que tout va bien.

    Mais la porte s’ouvre et je vois mon Dieu. « Pourquoi es-tu si inquiet ? il dit. Il n’y a personne d’autre que moi ici. »

    Il a raison. Il y a beaucoup de sièges rouges vides.

    « Mais quelqu’un pourrait venir, je dis. Je veux parler aux gens de ce spectacle de toute façon.

    — Oui, dit-il avec un sourire. Mais je suis le Créateur de ce théâtre. Je te donne les mots à écrire et je t’amène les gens. Ainsi, je suis ton auditeur le plus important, plus grand que tout le monde. Toutes les autres bonnes choses suivront bientôt. Je veux que tu saches que j’ai de grands projets pour toi et ce théâtre. »

    Je dis oui, et je lui donne les papiers. Je suis toujours réticente, mais je résiste. Certaines personnes pourraient pas l’aimer et d’autres pourraient pas être intéressées. Cependant, mon Dieu est plus grand que toute autre personne. Et je suis d’accord avec ça, parce qu’il est tout ce dont j’ai besoin.

    English Version

    An idea comes into my head. A rhyme, a story, a journey. The excitement of bringing it on stage. I become the screenwriter behind the typewriter, laying out the script, line by line. Chaotic. I take out my ink and quill and rewrite it all again, orchestrating my words, then I repeat.

    Midway through it all, I stare at the trash can at the other side of the room. I wonder what my friends will think of this. And my classmates, my relatives. I look over my script for the millionth time, weeding out all my imperfections. I get up to eat lunch, but then I’m still going over the script in the back of my head. I think of what’s the best way to say this. What’s the best way to say that. How does all this sound? What am I even doing?

    I look up at the analog clock and thirteen days has already passed, but my rough draft’s sadly still the worst draft that’s ever written.

    A voice calls out from the audience outside the curtains. “Please, come out with whatever you have.”

    Wait, are you kidding me right now? I gather up all my papers and hurry towards the front. But right before I reveal myself, I stop and quickly try to go over all the papers in my hands, making sure none of the pages are missing and that everything’s in order.

    However, the door opens up and He’s standing right there in front of me. “What are you so worried about?” He says. “There’s nobody else in here but me.”

    I look over His shoulder and He’s right. There’s hundreds of rows of empty red seats that seem to stretch out for miles.

    “But what if somebody might come?” I say. “I’m gonna have to tell people about this show anyways.”

    “Yes,” He says with a warm smile. “But I’m the Owner and Creator of this theater. I’m the One who gives you the words to write, and I’m the One who fills up these seats with people. I am, therefore, your most important audience—exceedingly greater than anyone else in this world could ever be. And all the awards and blessings will soon follow. Just know that you can put your trust in me, and that I have many great plans for you and this theater.”

    I nod, and then I hand Him the papers. A part of me is still reluctant, but then I avoid listening to it. Because while some people might be uninterested, some others might be critical, and some might be too busy. Despite of all else, only God’s opinions matter most—far greater than anyone else’s. And I can be at peace with that, because He’s truly all that I need.

    (more…)
  • Me vs. My Own Writing

    Me vs. My Own Writing

    He knelt down next to me and said, "I want to know what's on your mind."

    "You must be crazy," I said.

    "But I still want to read the next thing that you'll write."

    I paused and then said, "Sometimes I think I shouldn't write anymore."

    "Why?"

    "Because it's all just in my head. My pen has the power to create imaginary worlds and imaginary stories and characters just like you, but it's all in my head."

    "I still want to read it," he said. "Because even if it sounds crazy, your writing is a reflection of whatever's on your mind."

    "But my mind is chaotic. It's a complete mess, and you wouldn't want to see it."

    "I still want to see it."

    "Why would you want to see all the chaos of my mind?" 

    He looked at me seriously. "Because you have a beautiful mind."



  • What Real Poetry Looks Like

    What Real Poetry Looks Like

    "You call this poetry?" he said. "Let me show you real poetry."

    He took me by the hand and started running. I screamed out in surprise. "Wait a minute," I said, but we were already outside.

    Down the street, past the store, around the corner we went.

    Soon we burst in through the doors of the main library. "We don't need to rush," I said as he led me down the aisle of poetry. He scanned the bookshelves, and then he grabbed a book like it's been waiting there for him. Then before I could catch my breath, he started running again.

    We ran up like four flights of stairs, and I probably died a little inside. Then finally at the rooftop patio, I tried to say that he's insane, but I was out of breath. Then for a moment we just stood there, panting, the cool breeze in my direction.

    "This," he said. "This is real poetry." 

    "What do you mean, 'real poetry'?" I said.

    "Oh right," he said as he handed the book over. 

    With one glance at the book, it wasn't a pretty cover, but I hardly got to read half of the title before he put his hand right over it. Confused, I looked back up at him. "What are you doing?" I said, but he only looked right back at me. 

    My breathing was still heavy but I stood there and waited for him to say something. I searched his eyes, looking at his right eye then his left, then his right eye again.

    He still said nothing. However, in that long moment of pause, I started to notice the insanity of it all—his dark hair in the wind, his brown eyes lit up by the sun. The dripping sweat along my forehead and the faint sounds of cars in the streets below. I could feel the warmth of sunlight on my face as our hands still held onto the book between us.

    We just stood there for a long minute before he broke the silence.

    "What is it?" he said.

    "You're not real," I said. "I'm a writer, and you're just a random character I've made up in my mind."

    He laughed. "But I am alive. I'm actually waiting for you to discover my story, since no one knows about it yet, right?"

    I was left dumbstruck at his response, and then I looked back down at the pen in my hand.

    All of these lines I've written onto the page have come together and created something impossible, and now this tiny piece of paper has been brought back to life.

    So this is what real poetry looks like.
  • Your Black Holes For Eyes

    Your Black Holes For Eyes

    You looked up at me, and for the first time I noticed the depths of your dark brown eyes.

They were magnetizing. Like black holes. 

I stood frozen at the window of my spaceship from afar. I thought I was a safe distance away from you, but then by only your direct eye contact, you started to pull me in. 

The event horizons of your eyes sharpened. Space-time began to stretch out further and further, sucking out all other noises like a vacuum. The perfect circles of your eyes started to look more and more like black disks surrounded by a rim of soft light.

And as you spoke with me, I tried to keep my spaceship steady. It was merely small talk, but I cannot imagine if it was more. It only lasted for two minutes before your friend called you over, but now your black holes for eyes are forever etched into my memory.