Poetry Corner

[Lifecrafting]

Thank you Woodsgnome,

When I was young, maybe 10 or so, I remember asking God for help. It was never in the midst of violence but afterward, when I gravitated toward something outside of my physical reality. And each time I turned to God knowing that I "have been here asking for help before and it doesn't come"... I wondered why I kept trying when it was obvious that God wasn't going to help ~ nobody was going to help. I recall thinking something like: alone is all I am.

Somewhere within myself, I also knew there was something more ~ something bigger than God. Can you imagine a kid thinking that there is something bigger than God, SOMETHING that didn't place me in a position of  expecting or needing??? At the time, those thoughts/feelings served me but eventually, they too were gone and of course, over time, this leant itself to me never asking for help...

Now I know that hidden under all the chaos that was my existence, was creativity trying to be expressed, dreams of me being able to.....fill in the blank.
I want so badly to create; I am EXPLODINGWITH THE NEED TO CREATE.
And I am so stifled, I don't even know what to do; this note started yesterday, if that tells you anything...

So, Woodsgnome, I appreciate your words in response to this poem because even though I cannot access the Dream Designer at this moment, I always know it's there; you worded it perfectly. Thank you!

I don't know how I missed your  Sweet Darkness post before but I did. I favorited his website to read further; thank you for sharing his work.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn

anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive

is too small for you.

David Whyte, from his poem "Sweet Darkness"

This is BEAUTIFUL! And in my opinion, of the same feeling as the conversation here. Or am I off base there?

[Lifecrafting]

I was wondering....
Anybody up for interactive poetry? Could be interesting.....

[JohnnyBoy]

I used to write until my ex threw my 20 some odd poems and a hand full of short stories in the trash, pretty much lost interest after hearing I was a no talent hack.

[Dutch Uncle]

 

ex

[JohnnyBoy]

lol nice

[arpy1]

wow, never read this thread before but i wrote a poem and wanted to post it. NyxBean's The Magi and the Dryad totally blew me away - i was reading about my marriage!
I've done a few poems, always 'in extremis' it seems. sorry if this one's a bit sad, it's just how i am at the moment. inspired by Shostakovich

Endlessly Weeping
(outside and in)


The rain is falling endlessly outside my window.

Eloquent little rivers down the pane
track the ocean weeping in me

here, on the dry side of the glass.



I am drowning in pain
a rising tide is swallowing me up

here, on the dry side of the glass.


After Shostakovich Piano Concerto no 2 in F Major Opus 102(2): II, Andante

[Dutch Uncle]

Nice one. 

Listening to the music now. 

Edited to add: the music is very fitting, arpy1. Wow. 

[woodsgnome]

Arpy1, May writing and posting that beautiful reflection create a space for healing...I've sat by that window often, when those rains, on both sides, never cease and nothing matters, melting into, becoming the grief, not knowing or caring, just being.  I'm reminded of these lines from Rumi:   

Weep for yourself as when a cloud weeps,
and then the branch freshens.
As when a candle releases tears and gets brighter. 

[arpy1]

thank you, that means a lot.

[KayFly]

Arpy1 I love your poem as well as the music you shared,

I also love Rumi's work shared by Woodsgnome

Thank you for sharing

[arpy1]

i love that Rumi quote. please, forgive me for being thick but, who is Rumi? ( my super-blinkered-evangelical-xian-cultural-background is showing, i know. it takes a bit of getting out of)

i had a nice thought: i like poetry because it is like using words to embroider lyrical images into tapestries that are shot through with the gold and silver threads of your deepest heart and your most private thoughts. hmm... that's what it is for me, anyway

[woodsgnome]

Arpy1, Rumi was a 13th century Persian poet and mystic. Usually he's associated with what's now called Sufism, but the terms don't matter--if you ever read more of him, he's full of peaceful and insightful wisdom that cuts to the core of your heart.

Coming from my own "cult-like" xtian experiences, I didn't run across him 'til "after" I'd done time, but it was a beautiful find, nonetheless.

[arpy1]

thank you woodsgnome, i am gonna google him

[JohnnyBoy]

My favorite poet has always been Emily Dickinson, her are acouple of my most loved poems of hers.....

I never hear the word "escape"
Without a quicker blood,
A sudden expectation,
A flying attitude!

I never hear of prisons broad
By soldiers battered down,
But I tug childishly at my bars
Only to fail again!
                    -Emily Dickinson


A poor-torn heart-a tattered heart-
That sat it down to rest-
Nor noticed that the Ebbing Day
Flowed silver in the West-
Noticed Night did soft descend-
Nor Constellation burn-
Intent upon the vision
Of latitudes unknown.

The angels-happening that way
This dusty heart espied-
Tenderly took it up from toil
And carried it to God-
There-sandals for the barefoot-
There- gathered from the gales-
Do the blue havens by the hand
Lead the wandering Sails.
                       -Emily Dickinson

[arpy1]

latest poem. (Miranda is what my dear old Grandad called me when he couldn't remember my name!)

Miranda

Miranda is a fine actress.

Her last line delivered, she leaves the stage
to the usual applause.

Inaudible backstage,
the postprandial buzz in the foyer
clumsily saws its way through each act,   
dissecting the evening's merits from its demerits,
before finally disappearing into the collective memory
of waiting taxi and train.

In the dressing room
the congratulatory gathering attends
while she disrobes and removes the ornate wig,
de-creating the character
she has so flawlessly and tirelessly portrayed
for her audience
night after night,
performance after performance.

"Was I ok tonight?" she asks,
trying to sound casual
as she wipes away the last smear of colour from her face.
No one replies.

"Anyone seen Miranda?"
someone drawls.