Be Compassionate Poem by Suzanne Hayasaki

Don't look too closely at my poems.
Don't expect perfection.
Don't measure the meter.
Don't demand realism in the details.

If the structure were sound
If the meaning were clear
If the rhyme led to an expected end
It would only be charming artifice.

My words imperfectly express
Concepts that tease me in my sleep,
Leading me deeper into my own mind
Without ever letting me grasp them.

I awake unsettled, restless, confused.
I feel as if I have left myself behind
Locked in a blue room
Alone with an old guitar.

There, in that barren space,
Sitting on hard wood
Smelling the damp plaster
Absolutely bereft, I begin to sing.

At first, the notes won't come.
My throat is choked.
My fingers fumble with the strings.
I feel clumsy and ugly.

But then I let go of my own expectations.
Here in complete isolation I am free.
Here in this silent place I can play,
I can experiment, I can fail.

As I let my fingers run up and down the strut,
My voice follows and grows stronger.
It begins to converse with the strings.
I feel the strength they lend each other.

Suddenly, I am no longer alone.
I feel the support of the hardwood floor.
Sunlight floods over my warming form.
The hollow body of the guitar nestles like a cat in my lap.

The act of creation has broken the illusion
Of the separateness of my identity
And I bask in the comfort of oneness
Until reality shatters the spell again.