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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, and got in your eye. |
| With all good writing, there are many things we would rather not say but leave to the reader's imagination. Poetry is like interpretive dance. How does it make you feel, make you imagine? Good, bad, we move on from it. Do we go back to it, begs the poet? To quantify words takes skill or simple experience. The more we read and write, the process cultivates those keen eyes for the right text. I'm not a master of writing. I obsess with words, the language, especially since 2006. Readers forced me to wrestle with myself, my words, get to the point. So, here it is. My attempt at a poem with challenge to readers to see if we are on the same page. An attempt to show this community what is part Me and part you...what I've learned here should reflect strongly in what I display in ALL MY WRITING: The poem:
Interpretation: (What you should know -- I have all kinds of avenues to chase down when I start something. Just the title alone made me think of all the directions I wanted to take. I had a feeling in my gut, because my motor was revving. When I feel good and want to express, I trust wherever this thing is going. I'm part navigator, driver and the person in the back seat experiencing the ride. Each voice in my head uses experience to help us get there.) I like the comments people shared. It even got scholarly. Rather than response to reviews, I waited for the responses, the second look-sees. Now I reveal -- I can make Interpretation succinct. Life is a fast ride. Be prepared. It will give you feelings of false hope. 'Eyes that gleam'...we see possibilities. Ghosts are self-doubt and haunting reminders of what we could have been...hence dull eyes, numbing ourselves to avoid regret. 'Over all shoulders' is the past, history and indicates 'since the beginning of time' like our forefathers who came over whatever ocean with a dream but failed: 'drown on dry land'...irony. But: 'backs to the future' ...we ignore the past. We are stubborn. We insulate, winter ourselves (so to speak). 'Silver dreams' ...someone else's visions to get us through these hard times (movies, streaming services  ). 'Dreamt for us'...selling us fantasies we could not acquire ourselves.The last stanza is about what we leave behind. It's the saddest. We are dying. Our planet, in fact. Autumn is no longer about promise of renewal, but marking time. All the tomorrows forgotten: end of time. And, we (more notably, this author) dread rather than live like we are dying -- so, it is individualist and globalist in each sense. Side 2: (I had this written out by hand after reading last review of Through Your Hair. Flipping over note now.) We can be the biggest obstacles to our own fate if we are not equipped to be a part of this world (so much of that statement applies to my foray in the Internet realms). And, even if we did play our cards right, is it satisfying to play systematically, rather than just live and experience and let all the joys and sorrows move through us without keeping score? Okay, last statement might not be a defense of poem. I'll reread 'Through Your Hair' one more time...BRB... Oh, yeah. I had a crib note stuck into there under HIDE: "Essentially, the history of the world and human kind's persistence in it. Our purpose is to live, die and give to future generations. Circle of life stuff. But, what we truly impose on earth is only death. It questions our purpose, spreading from continent to continent and then the world succumbs to our ultimate overpopulation. So, death. Imagery implies most. I just forgot all elements of what I meant as I wrote like what over our shoulders meant other than leaving behind other worlds, lives, turning our back on history while forging ahead, crossing Atlantic to America." Maybe, more global than individual? It is possible to not be the master of what you write? Maybe, there is some truth to these muses beyond a whimsical nature that overtakes the soul of a writer. Hey, don't blame me! *points at winged muses* I've come to appreciate your input of my writing. I owe a lot of my growth with poetry here to your input. Signed, ly |
Sometimes, I want to give away (to the potential reader) too much. But you have to sing that song in your heart, no matter how awkward. Some might like it, others might hate it. Mostly, it's no response and you move on -- to another beat, the next rhythm that spins your heart to dance...chance it. Sometimes, its serendipity that reminds us our language can be decoded. We don't want to tell too much because the intensity of what you feel lies hidden in the words you chose. I responded to this note I happened upon in newsfeed: "Note: Maybe the trees will take us for granted. Maybe t..." Maybe the trees will take us for granted. Maybe they already have. Maybe we will grow up to do the same, you and I. Or maybe we will dive into the lake, together, and never come up. Maybe the summer will forget our names. Maybe it already has. Maybe we will lose ourselves in the fall and do the same, you and I. Or maybe we will splinter across the canyon, together, and become a fine dust. I already blame the Staghorn Cholla. I already blame the wild Vesper Sparrows. The saints of Phoenix have come here calling for us again. I am radiant with things I will never understand, and you, you are charged with the same. We are always, and always the same, you and I. We are drawing now nearer to the edge of the forest. Maybe the wolves will forget what they have seen here. Or maybe they will use it against us. Maybe we will return with our weapons, together, and do the same, you and I. Maybe we will become the bullets that splinter apart their bones in the names of men. WE WILL REMOVE THE ONCE SHARP TEETH, YOU AND I, AND LEAVE OUR FORMER NAMES AS VESTIGES IN THEIR PLACE. Clouds, was what I imagined -- clouds personified. It doesn't have to be what the poet intended when you read. What did you see or feel when you invested your mind in consuming the poet's offering? His experience shared becomes the experience others may have had or Unknowingly processing. Passion-driven writing, no matter how controversial, doesn't feel wrong because you are not telling people what to feel. Again, they will like it, hate it or leave it. Just have to be true to yourself. We are shaped by those interactions, but the passion/message will survive and eventually find those faces that know your true heart. Your growth comes from preserverence. You learn as you teach along the way. "Moon In October 🌕"   |
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Dreams feel good though. Thanks for posting this one, Brian 
