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Your body hung like an archangel’s
Over the looming castle and
I could not look away.

These words first came to me a few weeks ago, and I had no idea what they meant. But I knew that I liked them. I liked the melodramatic way they came off my tongue when I said them out loud. I admired how they looked on paper, sitting so prettily in cursive. I enjoyed the cadence of each phrase.

When the words first came to mind, I did not know who or what “your” represented. I didn’t know what castle I was referring to, or why the imagery of an  “archangel” was even involved. And why was the body “hanging” over the castle? And why couldn’t “I” look away? These were all questions I endeavored to answer as I worked through the words that had come to me.

Creative pieces are often randomly inspired. A story or a poem sometimes grows out of a single word or phrase that I hear in a lecture or during a discussion. When the word or phrase comes to mind, I make it my task to figure out how to shape it into a more complete, meaningful piece. Other times, a piece comes to me fully formed, but still in need of substantial revision.

I didn’t feel the above tidbit was a particularly pressing idea (sometimes, ideas feel so pressing that I’m unable to focus and need to force myself to calm down, but this was not the case), so I tucked these words into the back of my mind and played around with them whenever I was bored. Over the next little while, I came up with another verse:

And perhaps I am a traitor
Perched on such middle ground
As the crowd pulls me towards you
Or away from you

(I admit I sway towards the dramatic side in my writing, especially when I write poetry—sometimes it’s a good thing; other times, not so much.)

Soon enough, I found a way to shape these words into something more meaningful. Usually, my poetry is connected to conversations I’ve had, thoughts I’ve pondered, or things I’m going through. Poetry is catharsis for our hard-to-describe feelings, for emotions that we can’t pinpoint without some extra imagery. For example: the other day, I was listening to Emile Pandolfi’s piano arrangement of and I was almost brought to satisfied tears as I listened to its gentle, lilting melody. I felt the same thing when I watched a video of my 5-year-old niece’s ballet performance. The feeling was something like joy, but at the same time, a little different than that. There was a certain wistful quality to the emotion, too. Sometimes the entirety of an emotion is hard to describe—but often, metaphors can help.

And my body splits like a curtain into two perfect halves.

Life often throws things at you that you can’t make sense of, at first. But you take what you get, you roll with the punches, you do some discovery writing—and eventually, you shape these things (or perhaps, they are shaped?) into something meaningful. You look back at the path you have just walked through, and you realize that there was a point to it all. And in the end, it seems you find your way.

When I Stood Unmoving

Your body hung like an archangel’s
Over the looming castle and
I could not look away
From the grotesque scene splayed out in front of me.

Your silhouette was a tombstone
Caught on prongs of the castle gates
The crowd gathered to witness your end–
Your untimely fate signaled by the sound of funeral drums

And perhaps I am a traitor to both sides
Perched on such middle ground
For, as some pull towards your body
And others towards new land
Here I stand, unmoving.

But the night swells
And threatens to consume those
Who refuse to choose something
But I cannot choose.

Here I stand, one foot on each side of a fissure
And along with the drummers, I beat, and beat
And as the earth opens up below me
I yell one last time

And my body splits like a curtain into two perfect halves.

My poem is still unrevised, but I have pictured a sort of end for it. I didn’t know what the words meant at first, but as I continued writing, I was able to find their meaning. There is a lot to be changed, but it has more of a direction than when I first thought up the original verse. I can continue to work on the poem until I have a final product that I am satisfied with. In the process, its ending may change. Maybe even its contents will change. As I’ve written it now, the poem serves as an exploration of recent thoughts. “Your” may represent an old way of thinking or an old life trajectory—once high-ranking as an archangel, but now fading away. And the poet, “I,” is stuck in this “middle land,” trying to decide if they want to hold onto this old thinking/trajectory, or venture into new and uncertain lands. For if they remain unmoving, making no decisions, they might meet their own demise.

I’ll keep on working on this poem. I don’t know where I’ll end up, but that’s what I like about writing: I can always change things, and I can continually work on my words until I have a product I’m satisfied with. And that’s what I like about living, too: our lives are ever being revised.