In late winter I can relate to this poem by 20th Century American poet, John Berryman. His style was part of the confessional school of poetry.
I have enjoyed some of Berryman’s poems, though I am reluctant to dig deeper into his work knowing that he, like his father, took his own life. The scars inflicted upon a young mind can sometimes be so profound as to forever alter the ability to heal.
Dream Song 14
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored
means you have no
Inner Resources.’ I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
His mother’s words have a ring of truth and wisdom. yet we all must endure boredom to some degree and at some point in time. When boredom comes to visit, perhaps the best anyone can do to push it away is to step out of the personal zone of comfort. Like a child still brimming with a sense of wonderment, it is there, where we experience some sense of vulnerability, that we may discover something to ignite a new flame of interest.