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Excerpts from 'To a Poet" 1-5 for the last day of September
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Excerpts from 'To a Poet" 1-5 for the last day of September |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart 
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[This little bit of free verse had some good comments in Open - now I place it here for some good critiques from you folks. Last day of September, Free Verse Reigns...and now you all can get back to other formats. Thanks for letting us play!] Excerpt from “To a Poet” - 1 I am very envious of young people, such as yourself, who make it seem so easy! Readers, mind you, never really understand what it is that makes us [poets] WANT to write... as you very well know, to shut a writer up is to take their very air away. No wonder at times we feel as if we carry the lead weight of the world upon our shoulders... nothing gives us more FREEDOM than spilling our soul onto the parched white... The camaraderie of writers is akin to that of mothers having gone through childbirth. No mother needs to tell another mother what it's all about ... a wink will suffice in the sisterhood of knowledge gone unspoken. It is the same for writers. I don't need to tell you the desire that is within me to bring some "thing" to birth! Because you have that same desire, sometimes intangible, sometimes painful, and we wonder, "Are we holding on to something miraculous?" or is it just heartburn? We only know that we feel this unnamed hidden desire to bring it to the forefront... whether it fails, or merely fulfills the desire to scribble... it HAS to come out. BUT...what if it IS successful? Do we write for the masses, or some inner desire to just create? Do we share it with one and hope they appreciate it as much as we do, or do we share it with anyone and all, hoping that some one person finds in our words our deepest secret? Do we dare take that chance? ~*~ Excerpt from “To a Poet” – 2 You asked, “What is the secret?” and truth be told, for me, it lies in the fact that I unwillingly call myself “Poet” because I hold Poets in such high regard, such as yourself. It comes down to self-critique, to get past the shy of holding out to this world, and beyond, my barest thoughts naked for all to see. Why, for some of us would-be writers, that in itself is the greatest leap of faith for one’s character… So I unwillingly call myself a poet, as I would rather say, would be… could be… knowing that the mantle of named honor looks far better on you, no matter your age, or creed, or faith, or bleed… but should you want to take me within your fine circle, then I can not think of any place I would rather be. ~*~ Excerpt from “To a Poet” – 3 …and now you ask, “Why write?” and “By what instrument?” I will address why, later…but for now, let us talk instrumentally… Oh my friend, my Poet, given the time and thus, to be given a form of romanticism to wrap around my shoulders I would write with a candle by my side, a dip pen and the blackest of blue inks, the finest of papers or the coarsest of paper bags and the stubbiest of pencils by whatever light available… but in constant fear of not capturing all of my elusive thoughts because and by way of interrupted life… and given the nuance of the day my fingers tap tap tap my thoughts … the strangest thing, though… here before me are beautiful journals that are waiting for some thing from me, some bit of proof that I touched them, read their inner thoughts, and even though inspired by their glossiness of blankness which awaits my inward spire I cannot come to press the nub to leak the soul for perhaps they would only be tired dribblings from a cracked pen and I would not damage their beauty so… Dare I conjure the jinja of the netted works into an electrical dither of non-compose forcing Forcing! Me to pick up my treasured pen To reveal by leak My soul. I fear my hesitate would blotch the paper and there is no delete key only flame. ~*~ Excerpt from “To a Poet” – 4 You continue to ask “why” a poet writes, and yes, yes, I will get to that, as one fine poet says, “soon”, but for now, now we will discuss, When. For when to write is almost as precariously precious as our reasons why we write, oftentimes going hand in hand, certainly one not existing without the other, when, why, why, when… and the when of times will come upon us at the most inconvenient of times, when we are without pad pen napkins backs of envelopes pencils and we fall short of drawing our own blood to write upon our own skin, except in unbalanced thought, but our hands are too full of what we are doing [or we would have found the accoutrements so required] so with the beating of that very blood banging in our eardrums over the tense of Now! Now! Write me Now! Oh! We grasp at that elusive word, just the one word that will bring it all back once we reach our destination, if not our destiny, holding on to it and milking it, tasting it in our mouth, rolling it over and over like a mantra, that one word that will bring forth from the depths of the well of us all that would pour forth and nourish any reader who is desiccated and waiting, like a sponge thrown from the sea and beached, dried brittle by the harsh sun and sucked dry from the sands below, and then like the mighty return of the wave in the dark of night, having snuck back up the shoreline toward the pier, we crash upon the sponge/paper and let it drink in all that it waited for… for this is the when that comes upon us, the when of our write, and like the sponge we swell with relief as the words pour forth, and we ebb and flow with the tide of words in this when of now! Now comes elusively, and our muses are named, graciously, that we bid them, good eve, come sit beside me, stroke my brow and knead my shoulders, and lend to my fingertips that taste of salt, and sand, and sea air… that the gull should fly, now, that the fog should come in, now, that this should be the when, now, and bid me write. ~*~ Excerpt from “To a Poet” – 5 My dear Poet, We have spoken of birthing, as naturally to come to you, a man, as to me, a woman, and please, believe, it will be as painful for you, as I… we have discussed faith, nakedness and secrets all of the heart… we have spoken of instruments, how akin they are to any stylus of other days, any papyrus of eras past, all bound by leathered thoughts and silken cord… and we have thrust about timing knowing that it always seems, too little, too late, clichéd remarks easier to say, than our ability to do… so now, to truth. It goes farther than the mirror, farther than your thoughts, rippling just as a monarch’s beat of wing, the hurricane on the other side of the world coming full bore as a result… and this is why you write. Someone must scribe what was, what is, what will be. You and I choose a form, something that stands out a little, not too loud, perhaps, certainly at times a bit soft, a deliquesce whisper that captures souls… and is not the dry, factual, pragmatic, writings of any historian… no… we ask that our words breathe, a breath to be caught up by the reader, so much so that they might know our restaurant of choice this very day… then we ask that our lexis live, a palpable beating of heart beneath the thumb on its pulse, warm to the touch, the scent of lavender on skin, a lace glove enclosing fingers stained by ink… and we center on our truths… this is where we face the mirror and see beyond… so do not lie to me, and say, “I write for others,” as this is not true; do not say, “I only write so politicos know a voice speaks,” for neither is this truth; do not whisper, “I only write to pass the time,” as we both see past that mirror… Poet, bleed me your tears, and pass the sentiments, speak your truths, even if you do not feel you know that much, they are still your truths… garland me with your dreams, rope me in with your deeds, thrill me with your heart skips when love’s light comes near… rant your rage against injustices, scream your miseries, please God!, and whimper in your lost, for you are only lost once in your life, and in your found… cry… and weep me a Poet of truth… and this, my Poet, is the why of your write… and If, if you have read this word by word, and If you feel a bit empty, and your throat is a bit sore, a sting lays behind your eye, If, all of this, is with you now… Then, perhaps, by serendipity or Kismet, I, too, shall one day Be your poet. |
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Nan
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-20
Posts 21191Cape Cod Massachusetts USA |
This is such a wonderful chronicle of a poet's mind. It's a stream of consciousness that delves into a writer's deepest being. You've done a great job with it, Karilea. You've got so many great lines here, it's really difficult to choose what I like best... Perhaps this... quote: ...or maybe this... quote: You've spoken from your heart - and in free verse... a mode of writing that seems to take on the ambience of the writer, as does this one - SUNSHINE on a tablet makes me happy...  |
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Tammy Blessing Member
since 2002-08-26
Posts 366PA |
You lay a poets heart to bare You leave the whole wide world to stare But within your pen you hold THE KEY That secret part inside of we, We who are compelled to write Not through grief or steely might But out of love and truths delight This was an incredible read!! My poetic response cannot do it proper justice, but you inspired me to "birth" a little peice of my own, so there it is. I really cannot say enough to express what you have captured in this peice(s). I can only applaud you and say.. You ARE DEFINATELY "My Poet"!!  |
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Bridget Shenachie Senior Member
since 2002-01-23
Posts 1056Kansas USA |
Publish! Shenachie |
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