A Poem: "Echo of Elephants"

Echo of Elephants
By Jenna Reimer

We are born into this machine;
A madhouse of thieves and fakes
That prowl an exhausted land
Riddled with deceased trash.

We live and breathe these ruins.
We hear the sadness from the pack of hatred,
We crawl and pace and scream
Not knowing what death is,
And never knowing we are already dead.

The stench of rotting flesh,
The cry of old men and tired women,
The dead eyes of children,
Is the music of this life-
This life of misguided hope
And expired dreams.

Such a deafening sound.
Such a crumbling beauty,
Is the echo of elephants.

Contemplation. Contemplation. Contemplation.

The term contemplation seems to have become a far too familiar state of consciousness that has engulfed the entirety of my life; whether to do this or that, say this or that, without coming to any sort of reasonable conclusion, has turned into an unremitting struggle for me. The notion of “making a decision” has always overwhelmed me. Perhaps this anxiety is due to the fact that I have this amazing ability to believe the fate of my life rests on the most minuscule decisions, and if I don’t make the right decision everything will collapse and be utterly detrimental to myself and the rest humankind.

This idea of contemplation reminded me of a poem by Henry King called "A Contemplation upon Flowers." The poem exudes a sense of awareness, a sense of being entirely present within the confines of reality and knowing that life will come to an end; it is a futile illusion to always seek some sort of imaginative future that appears to be inconceivable, unpredictable and, generally, unachievable. The flowers King speaks to are content with living in the earth, the soil in which we as humans dread to join. We all have this common imagination that tends to become overwhelmed with despair regarding “the end” so we inevitably overanalyze the present, and past for that matter; we feel as if we must become something beyond ourselves in order to feel satisfied and content. Perhaps I am fearful of this feeling of being unfulfilled, rather, the fear that others will perceive my life as being unfulfilled. It seems I am more concerned with other’s perception of my life so I am constantly contemplating my current state of being in order to appear to be “the best Jenna I can be”… how terrible eh?!

I am somewhat alright with my life at the moment, it has been worse, however I want more but not for myself but for others? Is that strange? Selfish? Selfless? All of these terms seem to fit my issues as a matter of fact, but not justify them. I don’t have any sort of epiphany to conclude with so I will just end with Henry King’s poem and hope it inspires all of us to embrace a moment in time that comes and goes like the whispers of a spring wind.

A Contemplation upon Flowers
By Henry King

BRAVE flowers--that I could gallant it like you,
And be as little vain!
You come abroad, and make a harmless show,
And to your beds of earth again.
You are not proud: you know your birth:
For your embroider'd garments are from earth.

You do obey your months and times, but I
Would have it ever Spring:
My fate would know no Winter, never die,
Nor think of such a thing.
O that I could my bed of earth but view
And smile, and look as cheerfully as you!

O teach me to see Death and not to fear,
But rather to take truce!
How often have I seen you at a bier,
And there look fresh and spruce!
You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath
Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death.

A Poem: "The Cellar"

The Cellar
By Jenna Reimer

I cannot sleep in this room, dusky and humid,
Cloud like patterns of mildew smears the ceiling,
Cobwebs homed in corners,
Broken and drooped,
Lolling viciously like sultry vines.
Windows bared closed hindering the outside,
Only slivers of light break in
Hunting for the living.
Smells of mold and dampened sheets,
Dusky air all lodged within this bounded room.
I gasp amongst an infected space,
Soaked and weak in gilded sweat.
Nothing could survive long in here;
Even the floor planks are on their last breath.

A Serene Sunday… Thoughts on Life, Nature and Poetry

It has been a beautiful weekend with magnificent weather, finally! I am feeling particularly strong mental and determined, despite some obstacles I must conquer this in the next few days, to have a wonderful week. A new found perspective on the joy of life is finally overwhelming my soul and I am making a conscious effort to do one thing a week that frightens me (yes, it’s a clique therapy goal but sometimes it ok to follow some psycho-babble bullshit once in a while). My life has been far too structured for far too long and it is time I start living my best life with serious intention and no expectations.

In the wee hours of the morning, sitting on my deck having a cigarette and watching the crimson sky transform into a lucid blue, William Wordsworth’s poetry popped into my head. His appreciation for natural world and ability to capture its imperfections inspires me to understand that beauty. The poem’s lyrical movement exemplifies the idea that poetry is an emotion engulfed in tranquility, where imagination is the key that unlocks the innermost depths of the human spirit; the imagination is best awakened by celebrating the wonders of nature.

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
By William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: -
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -and gazed -but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.

If I Had the Money...

I think I would collect antique tea cups! I have always admire the simplistic beauty of Victorian tea cups with their whimsical patterns and delicate form. They represent the splendor of company or lack there of; a lonely cup of tea on a rainy day is, to me, one of life's great pleasures.
Tea cups also remind me of my childhood. My mom use to make me a plate of cheese and crackers and fill my tea cup with tea and loads of sugar and milk. When she could see the taste wasn't yet appealing to me, she'd replace the tea with fruit juice! hehe!

F*ck It Friday... A Poem

The Lattice
By Jenna Reimer

Unable to escape the lattice;
A net that remains a barricade
From all that is out of reach.
I peer through the mesh
Where crisscrossed shadows
Paint the floor of the other side;
Bleak Figures lurking amongst
This grounded darkness
Dash like a running hare
Leaving no trace of its presence.
Time running like the muddied waters
Of a February river
I cannot see through the murk.
The lattice is far too high to climb,
Too long to trek, too deep to dig.
To have these hands, these feet,
These eyes, this tongue
Are fruitless amid such uncertainty.
If I have learned anything in this life
It will be that there is no lucid light,
No clear shadow,
And an endless knowledge of doubt.

Serene Saturday... Sort of...

For the past two weeks I have neglected to post anything for “Serene Saturday/Sunday.” Perhaps my uncertainty is due to my mind lacking any sort of “serene” sentiments. School is coming to an end and I am finding myself falling into that utterly depressive phase of “where am I going in life?” Ultimately, I do know what I want but my lack of motivation and inept social graces appear to be halting me from any sort of progress. Why must my passion within an industry that involves social networking?! Last time I checked most writers and poets are introverts, or at least have a few loose screws in their head that make them uncomfortably outlandish. How the hell do I get myself out there when conversations with my bedroom walls are all the communal interaction I get?!

I suppose you’re wanting a poem from me now, a poem exuding some sort of tragic isolation I experience in which I am unable to come to terms with my desires in relation to the harshness of our contemporary world. *Sigh*… unfortunately I have nothing for you; this period of emotional ambiguity has taken a toll on my attempts to find inspiration in the natural world. I can’t help but wonder if this is it? Is this life? Waiting for tomorrow, as if it’s going to be better than today, as if tomorrow will be a significantly profound period in which the modern world no longer burdens us, rather, it relieves us of the issues we experience in the past. I think the notions of a “tomorrow” instill false hope where we succumb to an anticipation that our lives may become something extraordinary when really it will only ever be a meaningless existence. That is all.

Sleep Till Death

Striking from hell’s angry grave,
We are aloft the white peaks of a mad sea.
While shells of skulls and earth remain,
The flesh of bone perishes amid the furry.

Entrance into the Field

Here I am amidst a wave of dying wheat
swaying in a fragrance of burnt oak.
My feet heavy within a listless gut;
an inconclusive body
in a realm of bitter soil.

Malicious clouds observe a ruin,
unnourished and dim-
a pith of a steeped soul.
A boundless dream once
hidden within your broad mouth.

Earth of sweet marrow,
embrace me to a life.
To your death,
To your trodden pasture,
where a neutral path blazes,
and is still, and breathes.

Let us be destroyed by fire.
Let us be silent.