When the right poem is born it is all feeling. Taste and touch and nourishment. All heart and aching and lifting. Poetry is a revolution with a profound sense of strength. When the right poem arrives I notice it instantly. It is all moving like earthquakes so powerful that it breaks down mental barriers and knocks ignorance off Richer Scales. The right poem is not merely the ability to paint pictures with words. The right poem is a full manifestation of the heart. A complete contextualizing of the soul. The right poem is my entire body into words. Every piece of flesh, every tingling nerve. A spiritual essence poured out on the page.
Tag: substance
Hope Like Water
I must admit
I don’t know much about you
The first ocean in which I’ve ever swam
You were there in my mother’s womb
And every other home in which I’ve ever lived
I drink you
And you consume me
I cook with you
From pieces of your soul
I feed my children
And we bathe in your arms
Watching as you carry us
Water
Invisible
Yet nurturing
I know not what you are
Not exactly
I think you’re spiritual
Because you left your DNA in my skin
Your truth dripping as it clung onto my bones
Like breath of life escaping my lips
A misty cloud
A forehead kiss
Or a mother’s smile
And the world is yours to conquer
When she winks her eye
And you know you got this
You’re there to fulfill all our needs
A spiritual fluid
That man has not fully understood
Like heaven right here on Earth
Miracles
In the desert
If I could bottle hope
I imagine it’ll look something like you
If I could taste on my lips expectation
I imagine paradise would taste
Something like you
If truth could be wrapped up in one word
If hope could manifest itself
So we know what it looks like
I’d sum it up using one word
The only word with the power to both nourish
and destroy
To hurricane wrath
And to quench thirst
If I could touch the substance
of this expectation
I imagine it is hope
Like
Water.
That Moment
That moment when the inspiration is so thick but the words are so weak. When time won’t give room to whisper a glint of poetry or finger your way through lines made of braille. I want to write, but not anything. So I wait for the calming of thought processes to slow the string of melodies into a post of beauty. Nothing rushed and spilled like left over knowledge and conscientious stupidity. Not the same ole same ole thirst for the vanity of wisdom. No, not anything. Not the mouthing off of regurgitated ignorance. Surely every thought is not worthy of the blank page. The new post is after all too pure for any thought to brush upon it. Though the pull to build on the creativity that found its way inside your space must fulfill itself. I am indeed in the midst of that moment. I desire to write something, but not anything. I want to beautify the whiteness of this page into something stronger than the color of poetry. Something that seeps into your mind and rushes to the center of your soul like the longing of fire to touch wood; a stream of living water waiting to fall for the first cup it sees standing; the longing of lips desperate and trembling for the first kiss it sees wanting. Indeed, maybe I’ll just kiss my way into this post. Give you something of value to take home. Take with you my beloved. And let me give you more than just a penny for my thoughts.
Paper
Nice. This the kind of writing that makes me want to write a poem, yesss. Excellent. Love the Imagery.
I like to think of my paper, my notebook sheets, as having texture. I want the lines to stick like staples punched through to the other side. Their long, skinny forms, plucked up from the page in an effort to rise above. I want the page to feel rough and gritty. Hard and torn through in spaces just empty enough to fill with small rips of imperfection. Lines like ridges would guide my pen in a steady cadence. Trotting through a white desert, my landscape would guide me in the right direction.
Instead my page is one long ice rink. Its smoothness leaves no gaps big enough to see through. The torn spots and crinkled edges are invisible. My paper has flat lined.
My instant reaction is to pump it back to life. Electricity in the shape of a fat black marker needs to run down the center. Cutting up…
View original post 54 more words
The PBS Blog 