In one day the pendulum swings.
It swings far and wide.
It has a long arm and takes all day
but far and wide it swings.
As happy encouraged and inspired I am in the morning
so opposite by night.
My fingers race eagerly to wake from sleep
and pound out the awesome words.
But by night I am ready to burn the lot
and hibernate in the woods.
How is it so wide and precise an arc
of freedom to shame in a day.
Depending how far and how true the swing
the next day must swing again.
I fear the shame and loathing.
I fear the embarrassment.
So dark is the night I’d reject the light
and bury my gift in the morn.
Yet a buried gift gives one no rest
and the gift cries out in pain.
I’ll welcome the swing of the pendulum
to cherish my gift in the morn.
This poem describes my fate.
The fate of one with a gift.
It is the loathing which must go.
Must go on and on.
The loathing which strengthens resolve
and gives one a bone in the back.
This dark side of the pendulum
is what writers don't lack.
One continues in the face of fear and circumstance.
Continues to carry the task
of writing the truth in what ever form
against whatever tide.
So here I am in the morning
writing poetry at my desk.
I don’t know what will happen
to all these words I write.
I don’t know where they will end up
and which weary soul ignite.
I only must write them down
like a crazy worn out clown
and use the arc of the morning
before the arm swings back
down and rises again in horrible mockery
to show me what I lack.
2015 © Hanna Elizabeth Williams McCown
