Sharing my poetry in this venue is an odd exercise.  It feels different than printing it in a book; way different than reading it in person.  I would much rather interact about it — I have more control that way — but control is not something I am aspiring to these days. 

This is a confessional poem. American literary and social critic Irving Howe, defines the confessional poem as “one in which the writer speaks to the reader, telling him, without the mediating presence of imagined event or persona, something about his life”.  This form was made quite popular in the 1950’s and 60’s by the likes of Robert Lowell, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, and W.D. Snodgrass. Lowell's book Life Studies was a highly personal account of his life and familial ties, and had a significant impact on American poetry. Plath and Sexton were both students of Lowell and noted that his work influenced their own writing.

I have not been a huge fan of confessional poetry but recently I have found it to be a remarkable means of meditation.  For instance, the idea for this poem occurred to me several months ago.  I started the poem then and have been assembling it bit by bit since then.  I chose a challenging form.  Each line in the stanza has the same number of syllables as the same line in subsequent stanzas: 14,9,8,6,5,4,3.

The form mandates methodical consideration. The words have been poured over. The ideas repeatedly considered. The result has been a change in how I see things and an awareness and a resolve to surrender this pattern to God in a sincere hope for change.  It is not a “happy poem” but the result is positive. 

Here is the premise:

I have noticed that sleep is extraordinarily restorative to me.  It is rare that I wake carrying the burdens of the day before but as the sun takes it’s place in the sky and I begin to walk into the day I allow that to change as I give ear to the voice of the world and the minions of the father of lies.

My Morning A Virgin

the sun washes over the hilltops and spills on my face

gladdening my heart with its fresh warm sooth

like it’s never been here before

this Morning is a virgin

fresh and unconcerned

smiling, singing

beautiful

soft caress convinces calls greets invites me to come in

enlivened by her touch courage streams

like I’ve never been here before

lost in her warm enfold

I will live again

and I walk in

damn my sin

rehearsed in my ingrained invite, grime doused intruders come

steep soaked in my fear of dependence

they surround us they surround me

blocking out the suns rays

disturbing our peace

laughing at us

I let them

resign, betray, cower, surprised, angry, ashamed, afraid

times I have been here failed to teach

again I have failed to learn

Morning the frail witness

defiled by my inept defense

I carve wrinkles

by her eyes

a bone creaks

the day is here

  — John Farkas

Back to top   Creating Culture   Archive