Poetry

Don’t Diddle the Dregs of Destiny

What is the Self?

don’t diddle the dregs of destiny, if you drop that doll into a dusty drawer you’ll dig for diamonds and discover dimes, deepen any dyke, dimensions deviate drastically but whatever you do don’t drive distractedly down dead-ends — distant decades display dim disrespect for your descendants — as dishcloths drip down dull doors, devious dumpsters direct you to dubious discos: do the decent deed and die with dignity in dingy drains beside deadbeat drunks… don’t diddle the dregs of destiny that determine your death.

I’ve noticed a lot of writing about the Self published on ILLUMINATION in the last few days.

Dr John Rose’s poem about his experiences in the English countryside was deeply moving. ‘A Mist of Purple Flowers’ evokes a special location unique to the poet. We all have these places that continue to affect us in the same way even after many years.

Cocooned within, My timeless beauty, That only I can know, Never to be shared

Eli Snow’s imagery in her powerful poem, ‘Floundering’ resonated with me. In our restless modern world, things often feel overwhelming and we can all relate to the experience of floundering.

I drown in this modern world

Simona’s ‘ode to no-Self discovery’ is the counter-balance to an indifferent and individualistic world. We find solace by identifying ourselves within a larger Self.

Life is a fractal. Self-similarity perfectly reflecting itself onto infinity.

I highly recommend all three poems — and poets!

A lot of my poetry revolves around the Self, which I conceive as a rather pessimistic concept.

The Self is flawed and lonely. We are each forced to live inside our own head — we are free to organise our thoughts, but we can’t escape that our existence is filtered through a brain we didn’t ask for and had no control in designing.

Few people survive the miserable game of constructing their home in their head: inmate and guard, jailer and jailed.

The Self is split. We don’t have one single identity: we are complex, divided and often irrational beings.

crush a leaf dead in your hand and it’s still a leaf. every little fragment ground into a hundred invisible pieces but they’re all still there.

Finally, the Self is weak. As I discovered a few days ago whilst sorting through old albums, we attach ourselves to things we shouldn’t.

you should throw them out, you’ve not listened to this since you were eight, jumping up and down with your air guitar, hair slicked back with enough fat to fry an omelette

I wrote ‘don’t diddle the dregs of destiny’ while thinking about all these conflicting ideas of the Self. We are dominating and passive, meaningful and insignificant, despairing and joyous.

But one thing we all rely on is language. Words structure our identity and life experience. Our worldview is formulated through words. That’s why poetry is so powerful in stimulating our senses.

What does the Self mean to you? If you write a poem in response to this, please tag me in it!

Here’s a little nudge for Holly Jahangiri, Sandra Szubert, R Tsambounieri Talarantas, Manasi Diwakar, Francine Fallara and Misa Ferreira de Rezende.