No, I’m no Beethoven, but I’ll try to do you justice, joy; Not a lot of poems are dedicated to you, are they? We’re all depressed poets here, yearning for you, spilling our sorrows out onto paper, out into the world, in the hope that when we’ve spilled it all, we may calm down the storm inside us and find you as a remnant And see you, experience you, bathe in you— But when we do, we never write poems to you, do we? We’re afraid, joy, that if we revel too much in your sun-scented, waxing crescent moon-washed arms and share this fullness we finally feel inside our bodies, parched for so long, we’ll end up losing you. Or maybe we’re just speechless, for you’re not much of a writing prompt, are you? But then, so aren’t our lives supposed to be: Vomiting pain helps, yes, but romanticising not. Nobody romanticises you, do they, joy? But what is there to romanticise? How can I paint a picture or write a poem that’s beautiful enough to capture your likeness? For joy, oh, true joy, now that I feel you now that I feel this rainbow ocean of butterflies this calm zephyr of sunrise the still, satisfied millpond of moonlight engulfing my heart I feel That you were worth it, That I am worth it. Maybe it’s you healing your way up through me but somehow, somewhere I feel that you are worth the demons that have made me feel angelic today, you are worth the pain, the suffering, the struggling the chaos, the storms, the blackholes, the voids all the metaphors I have used for my grief are now washed away with your gentle breath that finally caresses the skin of my soul; After all, one cannot feel joy if one has not known despair. Joy, oh sweet, pure joy, You are not a party popper Or bungee-jumping in the rain— I feel your tranquility, your finality in the ichor now coursing through my veins and in the healing of well-deep wounds that now seem shallow, oh, so shallow before your benign, fulfilling presence that leaves the air inside me smelling of roses. Oh, what a moment it was, Swelling with mellifluous melody as you peeled the glasses of gloom off my eyes— that'd been there so long, I'd forgotten they were glasses— that had shown doom as the answer to life You, joy, you show people life needs no answer— it is life, it is us that we live for, and it is you that makes it worth our while. Pure, all-calming, persistent joy You came when I least expected you to led in by my home: Mummy, Cas, and Dean and Sam grown and nurtured by me; And I know not whether I will have you tomorrow or the day after, or next week, or next month, For I am no seer, sweet joy, my dear But I will let the slow chocolate fudge of your walnut brownie melt on my tongue and you have been here for a week, and I feel you inside me now And that is what matters.
25th April/ (13/30) / Free verse