John-Ward Leighton

THE ARC OF THE DIVER

I pause
and think to dive into
that dark pool
that is my soul.
Both hand together
elbows on desk
thumbs under my chin
my nose clasped
from either side
I peer past my fingers
at the
monitor page,
waiting for inspiration
to blossom.
My soul appears
as an impregnable citadel.
I circle looking
for the terrain on which
to have my battle.
It’s time to meditate
before I contemplate
the tactics needed
to open this war
against self.
How do I control
the rage
I feel at this moment?
I feel the battering
at my door of self
from the external excesses
of my neighbours;
loud music, if it can be called that,
and screams and yells from the street
that I’m powerless to control.
I’m poised to dive into the dark
pool of soul.
I break the surface
and am another world
somewhere inside
somewhere silent except for
the beating of my heart.
I ignore the chill on my shoulders
and luxuriate in the silence
that I have wrapped around myself.
I select the darkest pen with which
to write
and scribble random words
into a poem.
Something appears on the page:
could I at last be home –
This temporary place,
with nothing but silence in my face?
I breathe in ordered cadence now
and imagine a small white dot on a black field.
A load is lifted from my aching head
the joy of nothing thought or said
pure euphoria and joy
fills this lone prairie boy.
I’m back in the middle of the summer fallow
watching my kite dance on the wind.
Hawks soar and birds sing
the clover smells sweet
and bees from our hives
fly from blossom to blossom.
A siren breaks in, breaks in my silent world
and an ordered thought
of the returned rage says
“Die mutherfucker die.”
I’m back in my sordid little room
sitting in my shorts in front of my futile
little screen suddenly wondering
where I’ve been:
Wondering now if ever
I can recreate that wondrous
arc
of the diver.