Infinite Darkness of the Soul

So I actually came across a review of this site on StumbleUpon, and was surprised to see a review saying that my poetry was “not bad”, but “angst ridden”. Angst ridden? I was under the impression that I simply wrote to reflect my personal experiences in life, not to bemoan how my mom doesn’t understand me.

It is interesting that these days, darker poetry is considered a tool of EMOs - angst ridden teens that look for darkness to feel something in their own mundane lives (this is not my personal opinion, but a general belief of Goths (who tire of people thinking that EMOs are Goths), and other ‘groups’). So I must admit to feeling a bit annoyed when I see my poetry described as ‘angst ridden’.

Lets look at the term ‘angst’, shall we?

angst /É‘Å‹kst/
–noun, plural äng·ste a feeling of dread, anxiety, or anguish.

angst 1 (ängkst)
n. A feeling of anxiety or apprehension often accompanied by depression.

While I surely felt anxious when being homeless at 6-years of age, or dreaded the nightly beatings I received from my alcoholic father prior to this age, I certainly don’t think I write to express my paranoia, or because I am a depressed person. I am in fact, a fairly well rounded individual, because I can look at my past experiences and learn something from them, and use them creatively to reach out to others that may have had similar experiences. I want people to feel something. If they feel dread or anxiety upon reading my poems, then perhaps they are the ones suffering from a bout of angst.

I certainly appreciate feedback and constructive criticism. All I ask is that my critic understand the nuances of the verbiage they are using to discuss my work, and be sure that it does in fact apply.

Of course this doesn’t mean I am against ‘angsty’ poetry. After all, Edgar Allan Poe was the King of Angst, and I adore him. I just feel that this is an erroneous statement when discussing my work. And just as an aside, this person is the first to my knowledge, to use this phrase when describing my work. The most negative types of comments I have had is that my poetry “isn’t very cheerful”. I can handle that.

Suddenly the poison took hold, seeping into her bloodstream, and making her head spin. Gingerly she placed her hand against her temple, trying to ease the now increasing pain back into the recesses. It was no good. The taste in her mouth was more than she could bare - metallic and bitter. Waves of nausea swept her back into the soft, well-worn couch with a gentle thud.

Trying to think, to gather herself, she muttered softly, focusing on a new storyline. Would she get to write it, or would she slip into non-existence, a mere memory to those that knew her? Then a thought came. Who really knew her? No one could honestly claim they knew her. Always superior in becoming what others wanted, knowing it was all she could do to be accepted. Guilt overtook her. She had everyone fooled - husband, mother, friends, and colleagues. She could never be the normal, stable person they wanted her to be. Not only would it be implausible, but unwanted, as her quirky personality has always made her feel most happy and secure. Her personal struggles and abnormal outlook had been the key to her writing, and to lose them would be to lose herself.

She closed her eyes and pictured herself sailing in the bay, the wind whipping her hair into a wild frenzy. She could almost smell the salt air, feel the spray of ocean mist on her skin, and taste the freedom from life. Grinning lazily, she reached for the remote and hit play on the CD player. Suddenly the room was filled with the sound of Rammstein’s ‘Seeman’ - somehow so very appropriate. Again she closed her eyes and traveled back to the bay.

Mumbled words echo in the room,
    dark and nondescript - empty,
    save for a chair and the child upon it

Sometimes sobs, then spinning,
    (how this little room spins about,
    violently shaking in its emptiness)

The child spins, out of control,
    the sobs rend the room completely
    in their vehemence

The quiet voices come again, the child’s name is spoken
    but never heard in the locked safety of its mind

Away from the world, the soul of a child hides,
    from pain and violence, hatred and fear,
    lost to aging and humanity

The indifference in those eyes, really just a void,
    no one is home, they’ve all gone to play,
    where the only fragment of freedom lies,
    deep in the recesses of that small, innocent mind

© Elizabeth Anne Easter, August 2007

There is a glaring problem in society today that just needs to be addressed. Everywhere, people are like oozing balls of stress, ready to blow at any given moment. And why is this? It’s simple. Sleep. Sleep is the real culprit here. Not marketing, corporate America, politics, or even your kids. It’s the fact that every human being needs to sleep.

I for one could accomplish much if I could stay awake all night. I used to write in the middle of the night, exercise, clean, bake cookies, and wander around the neighborhood until my neighbors complained to the police because they thought I was up to no good. Sometimes I was, but this is besides the point.

Now as a thirty-something with a family, I can’t get enough sleep, even if I pass out at 8 and fall out of bed at 8 the next morning. And through the day it is just stress, and never time to complete tasks.

I for one, suggest we protest the inequality in the system. Take a stand against mother nature and boldly proclaim, “One more nap and that’s it, no more sleeping! No more eating up my time, and no more cursing the television networks for putting on the best shows after 10! No ma’am, we won’t lie for this anymore.”

This ‘Say what…?’ moment has been brought to you by too much afternoon caffeine, and an incessant need to nap.

My epiphany of the day: If you are a mother, and even remotely individual, other mothers will set the perfect example for their children by ignoring you.

My son just started soccer yesterday. Being a red-blooded, German boy, it seemed appropriate. My husband was there yesterday, and talked with two women that were also German. They both have children in our son’s group. He introduced us, fully expecting me to continue a fruitful relationship that would provide our son with German companionship. This morning I received one “Good morning,” because I made eye contact, then they promptly moved to the opposite end of the field. This behavior was also mirrored by several other mothers of different ethnic backgrounds. I assure you, I was dressed normal, I was bathed, and I even attempted a few smiles and polite comments on the cuteness of their children.

How, you may ask, did I deal with this obvious discrimination by my fellow mothers? Well, it only seemed logical to knit and complain under my breath about the inadequacies of their children’s soccer playing abilities.

I’m not bitter, I just resent the disdain of other women. Women are supposed to be close-knit - look out for each other - you know the drill. When I was sporting my son as an infant, I had women slam doors in my face as I struggled in and out of stores with him in my arms. Men of all ages always went out of their way to hold doors open - even offer to load things in my car for me.

Perhaps I should write a scathing poem about women and their habitual self-loathing and cattiness….

Fetid pools of darkness ebb around my legs,
each step I take is more difficult
while visions of laughing faces and clouds of uncertainty
swirl above me, pushing me into the darkness below.

Abandoned, lay my dreams, in final throes of death,
while eternity lays before me, taunting me with promises
of more nothingness and despair.

These dreams, they take me, and chew up my soul,
I feel the holes gnawed there with an acute sense of
mourning, as my madness reminds me of why I always fail.