Tuesday, December 23, 2008

"'Pan, who and what art thou?' Hook cried huskily."


'I'm youth, I'm joy,' Peter answered at a venture, 'I'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg.'

Wrote this for a friend a while back and thought I'd share it here. This is for anyone who's ever felt any sense of an identity crisis, whether it be a twinge of doubt or a longing to completely redefine oneself.

Because You Inspire Poetry


All children (but one)
grow up.
“Curiouser and curiouser”
we think
as we tumble down rabbit holes
and eat the things that make us smaller.
We wander in a world
where kings are talking backwards.
Far from the cornstalks and twisters
of Kansas.
We move from room to room
until we outgrow the house,
wondering which side of the mirror
we are on.

In our metaphysical pockets
we carry a handful of absolutes, of constants.
The speed of light,
the book of Nephi,
bad knees,
his eyes,
and Cocoa Puffs never being on sale.

Because we are bundles of
self s
Resume and cover letter self
Painter and poet self
Wife and lover self
Mother and nurturer self
and chain-smoker
hippie
bookworm
sister
student
it girl self.
We are defined and categorized
drawn and quartered
while some nebulous other
"self"
defies definition.
We look in mirrors for her.
Forgetting that a cake
is not separately flour, sugar, eggs, etc.
We are defined by the
painful whipped up combination
and the heat of a burning oven.

2 comments:

Guy Mayhem said...

Very nice, Liz. I especially enjoy the first stanza. Good subject. The definitions we ourselves maintain. There's always a lot there.

By the way, the word verification word beneath is "Gangstfa". I think I need to use that in my life somehow.

Kathleen and Jesse Thorson said...

Oh Liz, I love you. Your poem helps me. How are you? When will I see you again? I love the last stanza. I also love "Lies." And this will be the semester something happens.