EpigraMarch is a (yearly?) poetry challenge à la Inktober, started by me to replace what poet Savannah Brown used to call Escapril. It consists of a list of prompts, one for each day in March, for which a poem will have to be written. Prompts are revealed one at a time on the day on which they are due. Post your submissions anywhere under the epigramarch tag to encourage participation and message me at telomagnetics@protonmail.com if you want a link to your submissions on this site. The following pieces were submitted by one such participant and do not necessarily represent the views and opinions of ouroboros.cafe.
Do not look at me as I am now. Spare me a moment That I may twist my emotions Into neatly bottled literary agony That you should read And say to me, "You are understood." For, that's what I seek. An understanding without vulnerability. For my insecurity and confusion Not to be charmlessly laid bare When they can be repackaged into Something nicer. Of course I fear judgment. Disagreement without comfort. I know feelings cannot be trusted, And neither can my own flawed perspective, Yet, see how little I've evolved And still dare to build my fort On questionable foundation. Though I am harsh, My self ridicule is comfortable. I know this voice like a soul mate. Somehow, when it spews disdain, I can accept it like I'd received anesthesia. Let someone else be my judge, And the tragedy again commences. I report my perceptions with certainty, The case against me begins, I argue in my defense, Usually through carelessness Twist the prosecution's argument, Then have all my ills exposed In front of the audience and jury When i could have saved face And avoided the whole ordeal If I'd listened better at the start. For one so concerned with control, It regularly appears I have none. Not enough agency of the self To recognize poisonous sentiments And prevent their publication. Far too little to force myself present And hear each word as they are Without importing patterns of my own design. I trust my own understandings out of foolishness. What causes those who know my shortcomings To indulge my claim to be an expert in my own experiences?
If the wind blew hard enough, I would bend. If you explode with rage or hurt, I would crumble. Viewing myself clinically, I was convinced this would ensure my survival Somewhere in my distant past that Still holds me prisoner even in shadowy memory. Passivity meant the terrors would pass, and I could Resume searching for solace in a hostile home. Silent compliance and restricted resistance have made me Liked by those I do not feel the same in kind. Positive perceptions grow the more Flexible to changing whims I prove to be. And, what have I left? What challenge will I not back down from? The trouble with imaginary villains is that they Do not resemble the flesh and blood ones. Imagination has me valiantly standing tall in the face of Darkened figures with more strength and power, But I relish the difficulty because I know that my cause is just. I can draw ammunition from righteousness and Vanquish the easily conceptualized evil. Reality has me Fearing for frivolities like Comfort and consistency and so Giving in after flawed consideration. What cause sparks rebellion in me that Extends beyond words?
Count the ridges in the ceiling, Then scrutinize the pictures in the Dancing shadows on the wall. Shift positions before my body aches again. Wonder at the people sitting nearby, and Invent the lives they lead. Why does that chair squeak. Eyes fall to a dimmed light. It's nearly burned out. Someone should replace it.
Sure, I'll dance with you. Let's go for a song And try to extract enjoyment from What may be mere passing fancy. If you're lucky, I may return the interest. But, tread cautiously For walls are built with purpose. I do my best to fill gaps And perform regular reinforcement. From atop, I watch Little you who wants in. With honeyed words You seek admittance. And, what then? When you find my interior fortress built of sand, When you spot my soldiers armed with sticks, Will you turn coat and court wolves? Seize upon my hidden fragility? I cannot trust promises. The lies of loved ones mortar my bricks. To take a chance Is to invite for strife. Content yourself with arm's length love For, I'm not willing to play this game to the end.
I've been here before. Yes, there are my steps from last time And the time before that. Eventually, you'd think I'd find my way. Surely this path doesn't wind enough To justify such a haze I proceed in. Yet, memory is fickle. I drop my breadcrumbs for a time, Slowly realize I'm forgetting the motion, And finally leave the trail unmarked behind me. When forward is my only directive, Of course I blindly retrace my mistakes.
I chose my mask like I select my shirt. A face and countenance for every occasion. Who should I be to you? Authentic is a difficult concept. No disguise is truly pretend. They are but dials I adjust. Presets to fall into when the scenes change. Wasn't it said that life is a play and we are all players? Take my character's lines as merely Following the script provided, But please do not attribute the composition to me. If this makes you chafe, Consider if you want to know me, truly. To understand each other is What we want to want, When reality reveals that the tallest nail Gets hammered into submission. I know, though. Villains and heroes and victims alike must make sense. Survival means knowing which to be And to reinforce this ever present barrier Between me and you.
I do not want to know the man of my dreams. He ought remain a fiction, A character whom I can desire from a distance. What I seek in him serves limited function. To endure such traits in mundane existence would be Taxing if not destructive. Fantasy is allowed to be uncomfortable and dangerous. In make believe, you are permitted to call the scene closed When the darkness morphs dreams to nightmares. Tangling strings easily sever And do not create collateral damage. The yearning may never subside, But I can content myself with the safety of Exhilarating pretend adventures.
I lay downtrodden at your gate. With only trust to carry me, I seek a sign, Some signal that you are here Just barely out of reach. Longing for your embrace, I wait on the promise this pain is not without end, And someday I will understand. From my limited scope, Exhaustion grows. Please know it is not doubt but a Miasma of gloom that's taking hold. I want to believe the meek shall inherit, But that gives little comfort when the meek Tremble under the boot of tyranny.
The path before me is being reclaimed By the nature that existed here long before This was sculpted into a human-friendly park. Pause and zoom in to any one scene and You'll find a whole world brimming with life Despite of humanity's interference. New arms reach for the stars from Fallen tree trunks where Little critters make a home and Moss crawls up the side. A brook gently sighs as it rolls Over stones and sediment and Clearing away debris from a recent storm. And, in spite of it all, This majesty inspires no awe in me. My eyes know they behold beauty, But the song of the world falls on unappreciative ears. What folly it is.
Let it rain and Clear away the bramble of memory and failure. Please might I float away Upon a sea of whimsy and Refocus my thoughts to the now. For, fractured remembrances hold me back. My feet keep retracing the path As though there's not unexplored tack ahead. Distance from the moment fosters reason, And so, let me not be mired in guilt and shame and Negativities that can no more bandage a wound Than rain can erase the past.
I judge myself harshly for craving praise And even more for being too shy to ask for it. Without feedback, I don't know the quality of my work Or, The extent of use I provide. As my harshest critic, There is no trust that I deserve reward. Greedily, I desire more and more the assurance That fades in an instance and Leaves only doubt to fill the space.
Floating though air, I swim through the empty. Legs kick, arms paddle, Alone, I am at peace. Nobody can hear, Of that I'm sure. If I turn my gaze, I can spot the grounded. The existing ones. But here i stay. Drifting above and away, Releasing my concerns and Choosing self agreed upon experience Above shoulds and oughts.
Look in the mirror, And see how I crumble in real time. Bits of skin crusting before flaking off. Reach a hand out, And find it's already shriveled. This is a lifetime of rot. For years i applied pastes and creams That smoothed and numbed. And now, my bandages have peeled. What I thought worked has no effect. My attempts have only masked the growing infection. So here am I, A hollowing husk turning to dust. Scrambling to collect the ashes As though I may be reborn through stubbornness. I know I panic in vain. The prognosis is grim, But I keep refusing to let go.
There's a devil in my pocket. It saps my dreams while Claiming to grant me rest. Distraction is its aim. Fill my mind with empty noise And discourage thought. Why do I permit it stay? The demon has its uses. Woe to me if I must do without. So, kept prisoner by convenience, I accept my fate as An uneasy bedfellow While trying to keep this temptation At arm's length.
The birds now chirp beyond my window. Fresh air is no longer brisk, And the bugs have made their comeback. Coats are traded for jackets, And the stores are alight in pastels. Oh sunlight, how I've missed you. Even my unconscious recognizes your absence. While winter nights awe, Your rays quicken my heart. Yet, can I not have both? The comfort of a wintered nature And the healing of spring? Let me walk in the moonlight Unafraid of insect kisses. I wish to feel natural in my skin Unsullied by humidity and sweat. March it may be, But do not make me part With my difficult beloved.
Now I know why you turn your head. Once, the thought of a villain thrilled me In my naive days when I thought Humankind could only progress. Setbacks were simply that, and Someday was a guarantee. But really, I was an ignorant child of summer Afforded privileges I could not see. The villains persist even after the heroes win, For their victory is but evil's minor roadblock. Time doesn't heal. It is a tool to erode and weaken resistance. Silly me! A real fight for truth and love and justice Requires so much more than ideals. All the dreams of glorious battle are met by Constant sanding down of hope and trust that A better tomorrow is a given.
In a room full of friends and known faces, All I perceive are threats. Ask me to name what possibly could happen, and Reveal the phantasm that drives my life. A displeased grimace, An extended silence, A groan of confusion, These all may as well be the harsh Condemnations of nameless actors in a comment section. Any judgement is death by a thousand needles. At some point, I learned that one person's dislike Is akin to a grave insult on my part. Survival meant managing other people's reactions and Doing everything to keep the mood light. To live, Vulnerability became weakness, Sincerity an opening for attack, and Asking for what I want a guarantee of disappointment. But, I've never been good at following these rules. Guarded I may be, yet, I wear my heart on my sleeve. This lie has long stopped serving me. Still, My mind cannot break the habit. In the name of self preservation, I Cling onto a cope that leaves me lonely instead of Alive.
My instinct is to build the monument Without scaffolding. To lay brick upon brick, Build upwards until beauty is born. Take on a quest Without grinding skills. Any wonder that I invariably fall And in turn feel a failure?
Wherever you are, I hope you're proud of who I've become. We never got to know each other intimately. The more distance between us, The more I've learned about you. What opportunities would have been possible Had temperaments been different? Would I have always been guarded in your company? What sort of conversation could we have shared? Time has made me wiser, But I can no longer share my insights with you.
I know I'm in there. People can certainly spot The child huddled in the corner as though Avoiding eye contact will make The expectations to speak cease. What fount do others collect their confidence from, And might I partake in its nectar? Even if fear cannot be resolved, Let me mask my terror. Can't I mirror assuredness So as to fool my audience That I am personable? How desperately I want to entertain. But no one wants A shy clown.
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What am I If not a chimera of experiences? My flesh wears the years and scars, Each with their own anecdotes attached. Mine is a temperament of surviving Those who preferred I not speak. What was my nature before I was Tainted by external influence? I would even attribute my better qualities Such as kindness, compassion, and empathy To the dreamers of The Summer of Love. Can I be said to have any core self That has not been developed (Willingly or un) By another artist's design? I may spin tapestries from my unique perspective, But they are woven from strands of foreign fibers.
Would you like to know the truth? Or would a lie better suit a reader's taste. Perhaps a poem like this would be deemed uncouth If the author admits that in their haste To complete their daily prompt, I Chose to turn this piece Into a faux high Concept exercise to rhyme and increase My ability and skill, Yet I find myself lost At how I would end this poem that still Proceeds until I can exhaust The abab format, and craftily Bring this daunting task Ever so happily To an end.