Twin Peaks Poetry
The owls are not what they seem, etc.
In a surprise to no one, I am a David Lynch fan. Lynch’s films straddle the complexity of every day existence while charting unknown realms that dip into the sublime and the transgressive.
My first introduction to Lynch’s work was in high school. A friend gave me a DVD of Mulholland Drive and I was hooked. The rest was history.
Which means, his films have found a way into my writing in some form or another. Whether it’s mood, presence, or something else.
And truthfully, there’s so much poetry in Lynch’s work. Whether it’s an obvious poem (see below), a snippet of dialogue, or a feeling.
Much similar to my mermaid musings, I have quite a few Twin Peaks-inspired poems floating around in the ether. However, I’m not sure where or when these poems will fit into a collection (or perhaps a cinema-inspired chapbook? Who knows!)
So, I’m sharing two pieces here. I love writing poems about films and books that found a way to needle inside my mind for days on end. This feeling, replaying certain images or scenes from the work in my head usually ends with me writing a persona poem in a trance-like, spiritual state. (It’s kind of delicious, really.)
First is one persona poem and the second work borrows mood and motif from the show, while also incorporating a direct line from one of David Lynch’s weather reports (it’s the first line in my poem).
Late Nights In the Double R Diner
Look Bobby, the jukebox is broken
again. Give it an extra quarter and a good shove.
Sometimes when I’m sad, I spray perfume: the kind
from a crystal bottle, I feel so ornate. I feel special.
So I push back the veil, past the forest thicket,
into a new world full of lilac smoke and lovers with stag horns.
My pantyhose never runs and I won’t need this apron,
or this little song. When they found her dead, wrapped in plastic,
it was like that long-haired thing took my rib and cleaned his teeth with it.
There’s an empty space in me now. A jagged rib that gnaws.
Didn’t you think I loved her, too?
The Trees Are Not What They Seem
Today I’m thinking about the trees,
and how beautiful they are. Why? I think
my palms are dry; my eyes are weak;
my breath, regular at best. The trees are warm,
and wet. They dream. If tapped, would
prized nectar flow out? I wouldn’t dare.
On this overheated afternoon, I’m asking them
to tell me stories. Tell me about love, and why
the air smells like cinnamon. You must know.
These are beautiful. ❤️