Fear of ...

Feb 16 2020

Fear of getting lost.

A feeling that still shadows you

after all these years.

Ever since that toddler wandered off

amidst a sea of legs,

a shy and anxious boy

reaching up

for the hand no longer there.

As well as of monsters

who hide out in closets

lurk under beds.

Then fear of missing out

fear of being uncool

the fear of losing friends.

Fear of love

fear of sex

embarrassment, regret.

But fear to be unloved, as well

or never loved again.

Fear of loss

and fear of God

and then of consequence.

Of disability

dependency

pain that doesn't end.

Fear of heartbreak

fear of change

fear of bringing shame.

Fear of losing everything

homeless and disgraced.

And not the fact of death, per se

but fear of the unknown.

Wondering if you'll pass alone

bitter, sad, enraged?

Or with your hand held

her arms cradling your head?

And will you take your last breath

with acceptance and grace,

with the wisdom, we're assured

that will come with age?

Or will you die hungry for air

anxious, and in pain

abandoned by your faith?

And will non-existence feel

as familiar as sleep,

the total absence

you take for granted

when you go to bed each night?

Or will it be how time must have passed

before you were born,

the resumption

of an eternity of nothingness

after the brief interruption of birth?

My life has been ruled by fear.

Despite having been told

that actions count, not words.

That I will conquer fear

by facing it

and that there's only fear itself.

Yet still find myself afraid

of monsters under beds,

still find my hand outstretched

to grasp at empty air.

This was a difficult poem to write.

I rarely get political in my poetry, which is understandable. Because poetry is far better at feelings and sensations than ideas and argument.

But it's pretty clear that I also rarely get personal. I may narrate a point of view, but there should be no doubt that I am assuming a persona, channelling a voice, not taking full ownership. Which must seem curious to readers, since many (most?) poets use their medium for exactly that: to express emotion, process personal experience, as a means of confession, and even as a form of therapy. It's all about the personal. It's all about exposure and vulnerability.

So in this poem, I've opened up more than usual. It was risky to write a poem on the theme of fear, because it does get personal. The key line in understanding this is “My life has been ruled by fear”, which is sadly far too true.

And I apologize for once again writing about death. But really, how can one write about fear without engaging with that great singular fear that hangs over all of us almost all of our lives? That part of the poem began as a couple of short lines. Because who doesn't understand and share that fear, and what more needs to be said? But then I couldn't help myself, and it became more of an essay than a poem, monopolizing two long stanzas that ended up sitting at the heart of the piece.

I'm amused by my use of the expression per se. I never use it in speech, so am surprised to see it immortalized on the page! It's an expression I generally intensely dislike. Because it's almost always used incorrectly. And because, even worse, it's often used as mere filler: a verbal tick, like the ubiquitous “like” or “ya know”. But here, it actually does some work: its meaning is preserved; and the rhyme it completes allows the preceding stanza to flow into the next.