Postcards Unsent

Flattery

I write this to you sitting on the terrace of our small room in Aqaba, south Jordan, looking across the Red Sea to Israel and Egypt, with the lights of Saudi Arabia further up this coast.

I write this to you to make you cognisant of the fact that you have been with me, in absentia, in my thoughts, almost without respite since our arrival.

I write this to you in a state of dimming emotional arousal, triggered by a powerful book, with recognition of us both contained within.

I write this to you, benevolent grace, shadowy spectre and guardian angel; an apparition in luminous unwholesomeness, flickering and starting, yet protecting me from my left side.

I write this here, in peace, not far from dawn (though hours away), beneath a lattice, shadowing light both artificial and natural, with the bright moon and dim stars above my head; the dull reminding the bright. The crickets croak and unfamiliar voices, unfamiliar tongues encroach from my left, as occasional taxi cabs interrupt the sea's lull in my eyeline.

I write this to you from a distance, I write it to next week and beyond, so far beyond that I cannot say...a future so gold-trimmed and smiling and empathised that it lies too far beyond to be imagined except in these ways.

I write to you as my holiday destination, my place in the sun, my heated night on a boat beneath twinkling stars, my freezing nostalgia, my mistakes personified.

I write this a little drunk, a little sad; a compelling yet strange melancholy or pensiveness, stepping beyond constraint with a curious and intrigued grin.

I write this to you because you've seen this, or approximately. Kinship sought is easily found in the smallest, maybe most inconsequential ways.

I write this with a love that tears at my heart, or can do and will do, sooner or later.

I write this in a warm breeze, sweat cooling underneath my clothes, beside swaying palms and climbing plants. I write this in a foreign land, rife with drama and exaggerated consonants. I write this with somnolent souls stirring behind me, impatient with heat, and with light.

Yet, I write this with joy and suspense, though foreboding, too. I write this with self-consciousness forgotten, or tucked away until called upon.

I write this in earnest.
I write this for me.

I wish you were here.
Though I'm glad you are not.

queen v

I think you write poetry in much the same way as Will_me does. You've put too much detail into you description. Take the first line for example - you only need to say Aquaba. The reader should be free to imagine the place themselves. Less is more.
Having said that, I love the ending of the poem. It's the most genuine part.:)

gubby

I love the ending too. however, I think there are too many words. big words.
It looks like you swallowed a dictonery

shiv

I have to respectfully (completely) disagree with the previous two posters. This kind of stuff makes me want to write. It reminds me what writing is.
Suffice to say I think it's brillliant and moving and intriguing and potent.
I could read it over and over.
Kudos.

p.s. I'm so jealous

seahorse

I think you are trying too hard here. There are too many frills. I think you have smothered your talent under layers of unnecessary detail; but having said that, you do have talent, that is obvious. Keep writing. I'd be interested to read more of your work.

JumpJump

I always agree that when simple language will do, simple language should be used. It's far more potent in that raw state, gets the point across, and draws out the meaning of the writing without the fancy camouflage. The work becomes more impressive (depending on talent) because every word is neccessary. Plus it's less contrived, and more genuine, imo anyway.

Good though.

Flattery

Well, interesting comments on this, and I will think think about them.
Firstly, I'm not absolutely sure I agree with queen v and seahorse about there being too much in the way of incidental detail; it was a specific time and place that was being invoked so I think the detail is necessary, though with a re-write or two, it could be much tighter in establishing the setting, so to that extent I would agree.

As for being verbose, yeah, I agree, and it's something that people have said to me before. Occasionally I get carried away and lose the potency of something for the sake of a phrase I like ("somnolent souls stirring", say). I remember reading an author (Hemingway, maybe?) saying that if you are reading something you have written and there's a descriptive passage that you're really proud of, you should enjoy it, then crumple it up and throw it away. "Less contrived" is a good way of putting it, JumpJump, though "being less of a w*anker" would probably suffice!

As for your comments, Shiv, thank you very much! High praise indeed from my favourite writer on this site. Fair brightened my day, I tell you.

So, yeah, really appreciate the comments; thank you.