Underground

Today’s poem, “Underground”, is from my latest book, The Anonymity of Waiting. I wasn’t sure what I thought of this poem when I finished it or if I accomplished what I originally intended. However (odd as it may sound), it has grown on me and become a favorite. Sometimes you just need to give your creation space, let it stand on its own, and engage it apart from your expectations. Then you can appreciate it for what it is and let go of what you thought it should be.

Poetry is good for our mental health in many ways. Reading and writing poems can be a space to process thoughts and feelings. “Underground” was one such poem for me. Although a specific, personal issue underlies this piece, putting it into more universal images gave me a new perspective. Imagery also allows others to connect to the emotions of the poem in a general way, even if they don’t know what I was thinking when I wrote it.

Underground

In amnesiac depths,
grinding and deep-throated growling 
grumble like a burial vault lid
scraping slowly, interminably
closed. 

We live on the surface,
walking about as if it’s not
an eggshell;
cities of glass towers
rafted together by power lines
bob on the surface of napalm.

Sudden as anamnesis,
friction shivers and grows concentrically,
shuddering into spasms 
that reach from nowhere
to grab the shoulders of the hills
with jack-hammer hands that shake them 
as trains scream off of their tracks,
power poles strike the streets
with flails full of lightning,
and the placid blue 
reflected in the glass towers 
explodes,
raining razor-sharp shards of sky
on the convulsing world.