I decided to post this one here, and remove it from my "who am I" thread.

At one point, I was disgusted at myself, not just for what I was doing to myself, but to everyone involved with me - the people with whom I was acting out, and those who were most affected.  It was quite a realization, and I wrote this to myself, challenging myself to be honest about what I was actually doing.

The self-loathing might not have been the healthiest, but this is how I tried to force myself to see what I was really doing.  I start with the emptiness, and then mirror that with the damage and loss.


The Poor Host

Come sip from my cup that belongs to another,
Let me share now with you something not mine –
Discreetly purloined, passed under the tablecloth
Take now and sample this sweetest of wine.

Taste from a plate that belongs to not one of us,
Quickly devour these morsels and crumbs –
Touch not the main dish, which is too far away from you,
Hurry and taste before somebody comes.

Enter the house that is mine, but not mine to give,
Lie in a bed that could never be yours.
Linger not long, for there's not enough room for you –
Look, but don't stay to uncover the flaws.

Steal what I give, for I'm giving you everything,
Spreading my wealth while it's already spent –
Dig in my pockets and have what you find there
But take nothing with you - that's not my intent.

How was the wine that I shared with you earlier?
Then you complained that it wasn't enough –
That which is sweetest is closest to rotten
And under the sugar it's horribly rough.

Are you still hungry - I thought you had eaten
The condiments, leavings and fruit not allowed?
And now, spoilt and bitter, the main lies forgotten,
Sitting exposed on its tablecloth shroud.

And why are you leaving?  I thought that you liked it here –
Every door open and flung to the side,
Surely you didn't see all the paint peeling…
Did you look too closely while you were inside?

I've now nothing left, for I've given you everything,
Costing me nothing but all that was mine.
Come check all my pockets, I've nothing to offer you –
No house and no table, no food and no wine.

Our hidden talents, the addiction did squelch,    :-X
as we move into Recovery, they emerge with a belch.  :o

ZemirosShabbos wrote on 02 Jun 2011 21:29:


That's precisely how I see it

TheJester wrote on 02 Jun 2011 21:30:


Jester jester
I must protester

A good poem is like a good artistry
What is seen is a matter of relativity

With all the mise-en-sc?ne
Out goes our imagination

jester
u are the master
you can be even עוצר
laag vokeles from hes yetzer

ur-a-jew wrote on 02 Jun 2011 22:20:


I considered this, you know.  I've never put the spoilers in like this before.  I accept that it can detract from the pleasure, but...

I decided on the comments anyway - I thought I would post about how the poetry helped me to see, not how it is just "a piece of atistry" - I have plenty of those, too

laagvokeles wrote on 02 Jun 2011 22:38:


Now, now...  This is not fair to you, having it all in English.

I challenge you to write something that reflects you in the language in which you feel most comfortable.

why do u think this writting can be helpful?
its deffnetly a talent, but why would it help me?

laagvokeles wrote on 02 Jun 2011 22:44:


Who said it would help you?  :

gggggg your hard to crack

laagvokeles wrote on 02 Jun 2011 22:57:


Nevertheless, you asked a good question.  You have been kind enough to answer mine, and it is not fair for me to give a flippant answer like that.  I apologize.

Writing (art generally, but writing whether or not it is "art") is interesting for many reasons:
- It is an expression of the author
- It is the expression of the author at a particular time, and in a particular state - it will not change, although you might
- It carries all sorts of "body language" that is unintended
- It puts you a little "outside" of yourself - you can read something you wrote a week ago, and pick it apart like you could pick someone else apart, and this is very, very hard to do inside your head
- Linked to the previous point, it is an expression that is external to you
- We think differently when we write - this can be valuable for seeing another perspective
- We can refine what we write, and add without losing what what there before

Reading what you write can show you things about yourself that you would not see otherwise.  Just writing can help to express thoughts that are complex or difficult to face.  Writing poetry helps me specifically in a few ways:
- Concentrating on the style, I can "let go" of other barriers and write without thinking
- I can think about what I want to write without the barriers of form, convention, grammar and logic (this is important in my case)
- I can "hint" at things that I do not want to say outright.  It's a step, or bridge to the truth for me.  It is difficult for many people to say "I am a liar, I am a cheat - I have betrayed my family" - it was hard for me to swallow.  Writing it in the third person, or in a roundabout way was a step for me.

Would writing help you?  I have no idea.  I didn't say it would.

You wrote a short and witty piece; I merely challenged you to write something a little more "you", in your own language, where it might express you better.  Not for you, necessarily, but because I am interested in what people write.

Moved from my forum - it really belongs here.  Or perhaps it doesn't.


Dear G-d, From a Very Far Place

You know, G-d,
You're very big.
Like, huge kinda big.
But I can see you.

Those who nurse in your bosom?
Well, they can see your chest, I guess.
It took us 5000 years to prove the Earth is round -
After all, we walk on it. We're close to it.

I? I'm far from you. So far, my G-d.
I can see you.
I can see you better.
Can you see me?

I am nor your prophet,
Nor your poet,
Nor his son.
Nor your priest, nor your prince.

I am your speck,
Your grain,
Your fluff.

Your son.

I don't ask where you are - I see you.
I see your shadow, your hand, your shape in my heart where you should be,
Your eye, your heart and your will.

But I?
I am far, my G-d.

And this thing is very close indeed to me,
This knowledge,
This vision.

But I am far from you.

*  *  *

You asked me to walk to you.
I don't want to walk to you.

Well. I do.
But I walk away, around, over and under.
I am walking to you. Slowly. I cannot not.
But I can't walk to you. I'm busy.

I'm busy with all the things you told me not to do.
I know what not to do - I do what not to do.
It's easy. Easier.

Can you comprehend distance from you?
Have you ever been distant from yourself?
Some people say you have, but even I don't believe them.
Why would you do that? I wouldn't, were I you.
Silly people.

But some people far away with me think that.
I don't blame them - they're too far to see you properly.
Did you make us walk here, so far, or was it us?

*  *  *

When I run from you, you run beside me.
When I crawl from you, you lay grass beneath my knees.
When I lie broken, you trickle water into my mouth.

Why can I not run where you can't help me?
Why are you always here?

I am further from you, now.
And so I can see you better.
I know what you are.

*  *  *

I don't feel you as much as
I feel your absence.

I have a special place for your absence, my G-d.
It's in the pit of my stomach, against my spine and my navel.
When I feel its hollow shape, I curl around it.

Do you curl around my hollow shape?
Do you curl around all the hollow shapes of me and my friends?
I think you curl a lot.

Do you hurt as much as we do?
I think you do.
Any father would.
Do we even hurt in comparison?
Your capacity for hurt must be infinite, but ours is limited.
Please remember that.

Can you feel dirty like I do?
I don't think you can. What is dirt to you?
But dirt clings to us. I'm caked in it.
Do you feel pity when I look at you with a muddy face,
Or scorn?

Does knowing I could clean it make it worse?
Does knowing that I know I'm dirty make it worse?
Do you even notice?

I know you do.
I even feel you do.
I just don't feel it.

*  *  *

I don't cry for you, my G-d.
I'm too far away.
Do tears really wash us?
Perhaps tears leave streaks in our muddied faces,
Allowing more grime to stick.

Do you wash us?
Even when we don't ascend to your washroom,
When we thrash against the soap,
Curse you as you sting our eyes,
Are we washed?

We still feel dirty.
Some of us are scared of the water.
Well, we're not scared - we even enjoy it.
We just avoid it.
You know.
Because we do.

We're very far, you see.

*  *  *

My G-d, please.
Don't answer me.
I ask because I need to ask.
But your answer would make me cry, whatever you say.
I don't want to cry.
Just leave me curled in the ditch of the field of my dreams,
Far from you, so far from you.
Here, I'm safe.
Feeling might hurt too much.
I'm scared and alone.

man, i only do this things when i give a present to someone...
i prefer a movie, or talking to u...

Shteeble wrote on 15 Jun 2011 00:25:

I love this poem, and was recently moved to quote it.  So I figured I'd pop it here   It highlights the difference between one who is willing to give of oneself for others, or one who wants to use others for oneself.  Note that clay is pliable, and that pebbles are unyielding...


The Clod and the Pebble
"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell's despair."

So sung a little Clod of Clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:

"Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven's despite."
                                    -William Blake