I'm not going to lie, I have had a terrible, awful, no good two weeks. There's no other way to say it. I have been feeling my anxiety creep up on me and I have not been as happy as I wish I was.
This week, however, we have begun poetry in my AP Literature class. For this unit, we had to look at Edward Hopper's
"Nighthawks" and compose a poem inspired by it. For me, art and creativity are what help me out of my slump and I found this exercise incredibly theraputic and engaging. Because of this, I decided to share this poem this week and urge people to try to use art and writing when they are in a slump. It can make a difference.
"Dark night, cold night.
Empty streets, quiet streets.
Outside the diner.
Not even a cricket dares to move a muscle on
this black and silent scene. A lonely wanderer
Emerges. A vagabond, a hermit.
Traditional clothing covers his untraditional body.
He meanders through the streets,
thinking, pondering, marveling
At the physical creations of his fellow man.
Suddenly, a light beckons our lonely wanderer,
Startling him out of his trance.
This light tells of stories and of laughter,
Much different than his current circumstance.
He tips a hat, raises an eyebrow, peers towards the group.
Not thinking, not pondering, yet still marvelling
At the interpersonal creations of his fellow man.
The lonely wanderer enters the diner,
The soda jerk doesn’t even lift his head.
He focuses on his present company, a
man and a woman, how beautiful is she.
Her orange locks drape down her
neck and her pink dress envelopes her physique.
Our vagabond is transfixed on this empress,
Like Cleopatra she captivates him.
Thinking, pondering, marveling
At the beautiful creations of his fellow man.
The trio - the soda jerk, the man
And the woman - share their lives and hopes,
While our hermit sits alone, silently taking
in the scene. They scream and screech and laugh
and yodel, telling about when they were young and free.
Tonight, they’re dressed in their best, hoping to
Impress their neighbor. Yet, no matter how hard they
retreat to the past, a darkness still nips at their sleeves.
Yet they cover this disheartenment with
laughter, forgetting their problems in coffee.
The wanderer notices these stories, a
grand cover-up of woe. He looks onward,
Thinking, pondering, marveling,
At the embellished creations of his fellow man.
Bright night, warm night.
Full streets, loud streets.
In the diner.
