this is my first post on this forum.
i am living, and was born, in west texas, an extremely strange part of the states. very much influenced by mexico, and the desert.
there's the background, here's the poetry.
untitled 16 - (i am a poet of the dirt)
17.07.08
i am a poet of the dirt.
born in the dirt,
i breathe in the dirt,
and every night i
wash the dirt off my face,
so that it will be ready
to be sprinkled with
the dirt of tomorrow.
i write not of the joys
of the ocean, of bounty,
of shores. and green pastures.
what i know is the heat.
what i know are dry days -
dry days in the dirt.
desert sun and brown skin.
and i know that colour.
brown, not blue.
brown, not green.
brown is the colour of
my soul, for i was born
of this place and of all of
its virtue, and of the dirt.
my soul is striped with
the pinks and the oranges
of the sunsets and the dawns.
i know that i shall never
bare witness to such as
beautiful as these outside
my window each night
and each morning.
and today there was lightning.
and nothing sends a chill
through your spine like
the rolling thunder in
the desert.
the echo of it in the
mountains and the
rumbles of it in the
belly of this earth.
in the dirt the drops collect, slowly.
and rarely.
and i'm thirsty always,
thirsty for life, and vitality,
for green and blue.
for cold, and for rain.
oh glorious thunder of
this morning that has
inspired me to write.
i've missed you.
i've not heard you in
ages as loud as i hear
you now.
you force my windows
to quake and my bones
to rattle. the ceiling fan
shakes with your roar.
and i close my eyes and
remember nights years
ago, gathering at the window
with my father and my brother,
counting the seconds between
the lightning and the thunder.
one one thousand, two one thousand...
that same childish joy
scatters through me now.
and i am still counting.
don't leave me.
rumble and rage and crash
and crackle and flash
until i am sound asleep.
unconscious and dreaming,
as you continue your lullaby.
this rare and unmistakable
delicacy of the desert.
stay with me until i fall asleep.
and though the rain hasn't
begun yet, maybe throw in
the gentle percussive taps
as the sun peeks over the
mountain outside my window.
the smell of wet dirt and dry rain.
the taste of both.
the drops of both,
scattered against
my window.
this feeling, these senses,
this is how i know.
my roots are not as physical
as those of the trees, or of
the flowers and plants.
my roots are in the hard
ground, the dirt that blows
in the desert wind with so
much force and such little
meaning.
they are not roots
that can be cut.
i am a poet of the dirt.
-celina o.
if you dig this, more of my writing is found here.
