The Things I've Written
Nov 30 2014


The tree that falls in the forest
reminds me of the words I've written
that were never read.

Still, it's lying there,
tangled in the underbrush
subsumed by soil.
Or snagged
in the branches of another tree
perilously leaning.
And when the wind is up, creaks
in the high wavering voice
of a disembodied soul.
Like walking past a haunted wood.
Or a small animal's
plaintive cry.

Which sometimes makes me afraid

of the deep dark forest,

branches raking my eyes,

roots, like trip-wires.
Of the rampant words, and wild thoughts
I gather, like mushrooms;
knowing exactly which are safe,
never chancing
temptation.

Words
so subtly flavoured
they must be taken raw.
Transcendental words
with which I search,

trying to explain
my place in the world.

And words
that smell of danger,
as unsparingly true

as full of lies.

That fill my head
like a padded cell, absorbing sound,
an echo-chamber
distorting it.

Words

not meant to be shared;

taken best by fire

than tepid rot.

And words, overheard
above the wind-storm,

faint signals in the noise.
That urge me to listen;
not just take a break
as I think what next to say
in my endless monologue.

Even the fallen tree
keeps on living.
Mushrooms flourish
in its cool shade,
fresh shoots
seek out fertile soil.
Where someday, someone will stop,

a rotting log, in a sun-warmed spot, on the forest floor

on which to sit.

Where the canopy has thinned
and enough light gets in
to reach all the way down.


We are essentially social creatures, bound by language. Words are meant to communicate, and so must be heard: what's the point of writing, if it's never read?

And yet we do write. Perhaps as is an act of faith, a belief in posterity. (This orphaned blog, for example; this faint cry in the wilderness!)

And we also incessantly carry on our own internal monologue, one that can't be shared (and most of the time -- as full as it is with doubt, recrimination, and transgression -- we'd rather not share!) Which represents another use of language altogether; one that is uniquely human, but has nothing to do with social interaction: that is, our search for meaning and self-understanding.

A tree that falls in the forest goes unheard. Yet it does make a sound. And since energy is conserved, that sound never dies: it may be heard, eventually. So we, too, are constantly sending out signals, whether it's in conversation, or a manuscript shoved into a drawer: at best, hoping, or at worst deluding ourselves, they'll some day be received.

And so I send out this poem to all the unpublished authors and scorned bloggers and clandestine poets of the world; to all the manuscripts in dark desk drawers, the first drafts in idling hard-drives.

(The more immediate inspiration for this piece was this article from the Atlantic Online. Here's the link: http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2014/11/finding-your-voice-as-a-writer-overrated/382946/)