No one paints a calm sea.
Okay, some artists do,
Paintings that chronically stressed women
Choose to match the sofa
And never sit and meditate before.
Calm seas and happy endings do not merit art.
We need to feel,
To be caught in the churn
The sloppy, salty tide bearing down on
Dark rocks, barnacle-jewelled,
And crunchy shell-strewn shores.
We journey with the turmoil of
The storm-thrown vessel on burning cold
Rivers, through a washing cycle of
White water beaten on hard sand
And we emerge clean.
We need to be tossed, shaken, inverted, pummelled,
Hearts battered, no timid knocks,
To be reborn.
Let my words be big and violent, thrash and pierce.
I do not want to soothe. I want to wound.