Categories
Poems

The writing has paused

I’ve forgotten how to write,
The summer has been so bright,
And the creative well runs light,
Dear reader, I know, what a sight,
Excuse me while I take time to make this right.

Categories
Poems

Aftershocks

Those dark eyes
Still plummet the soul
Bracing, hoping for gentle waves
Or a well
But the only truth waiting
Is solid ground
Shocking pain
And we return
And become ourselves

Categories
Poems

A thoracic study

Dear reader,
I feel a lump,
Behind my sternum,
Lodged in place,
Neighbour to the heart.

We had talked about,
How we were different,
But the unspoken truth,
That our love for each other,
Was not strong enough,
To overcome those differences.
An untruthful truth.

Dear reader,
What is this lump I feel?
It will not leave me be,
Right between my lungs,
Tight.

Categories
thoughts

Writing poetry

Creating art, for me, is almost always an act of catharsis. Poetry is an interesting form of expression: when I am writing it, I am usually in a heightened state of lucidity.

A first step feels like all of my mental faculties are working simultaneously on extracting a lived experience.

A second step is more challenging: translation. Taking the language of memories, emotions, thoughts, sensations, et cetera, and finding words and phrases that validate them.

In that way, art (in this case, poetry), is like a vessel that contains more than just its author’s creativity, time, and literacy. It is like a vessel that contains a microcosmic view of the author’s particular experience of their world.

Unfortunately, poetry is not as readily accessible to an audience as, for example, a song, especially in the way that the author intended it to be received.

Insomuch as that may be the case, is it not a beauty of poetry that it elicits different interpretations from different people? All of whom are reading the same work, but each of whom connects with the poem as per their own lived experiences?

Categories
Poems

The failed poet

Look at me,
My dear friend,
Before you ask,
Make careful your observation,
Of what presents itself so obviously;

And obliviously,
My unriddling has its limits.
What do you call,
Someone who is doomed from the start?

A poet whose pen beats?
With ink bright red?
Who can only share his lived esotericities,
In phrase-twists and wordly ideas?
Language already half-cloaked,
Experiences always slightly out of reach?

But most outrageously laughable,
He still wants to share his broken prose,
A worldly venture.

My dear friend,
I am the failed poet.