Poetry month is basically hollowing me out. Like it does every year. And because I started late it will go into a few days in May. So I’m just blanking on things to write about. I stopped writing about my confusion and pain on a particular subject because it was hurting someone I care about. I have a truly hard time with private. I’m completely open. No off limit topics in my public and private life except in those places where I am bound by personal oaths and legal obligations. So people wanting things private is really hard for me. Because secrets stress me out. I deal for awhile but then there are problems. I’ve had enough secrets that I hate them and I won’t do it. Not for long anyway.
But regardless, I am having real troubles with these last few days.
I myself am a creature of rules
But imposing those rules on other people is akin to speaking in tongues
And so much of what I call rules is really
philosophy not proscription, prescription
Live your life out loud is a fine poster
but how does one do this
what is its structure.
I wrote yesterday about a poem I had written for someone who I longed for who never quite returned my affection.
Today, I write about all the future poems that I will dedicate to the Goddess of my Heart.
I know, I know. Every artist dedicates at least one work to a current love. It’s inevitable. We are passionate about our work and passionate about our loves. It is inevitable that the two would intersect.
But I’ve dedicated many works to her already. Anything Hash tagged GMH is about or for her. Dedicated to her.
I’m a romantic. We all know that. But I know she reads these. And that is the best feeling. That she reads what I write. In some ways, everything I write is in dedication to her. She captivates me. I sometimes feel like a complete idiot. Because I write her and I ramble, as I am wont to do, and I think I sound like a fool. Maybe not, maybe I just sound romantic.
It’s the duel nature of the artist and critic.
Perhaps, I’m overly harsh in this regard.
But here I go, rambling again.
Poetry. It’s sometimes as little as a sentence and I am something of a minimalist, trying to distill down to the essential words. So that there is space for the reader to project themselves into the piece.
With every conversation
Your words etch into me
Taking up residence
in my safe places
Where my becomes our
The goodness of a person is expressed in the actions they take and the way that they treat others. Who they are in their heart matters but if they take no action that echos that then it doesn’t matter.
A person who is evil that does good works has brought good into the world.
A person who is good who does evil works has brought evil into the world.
I don’t think it is as black and white as that but it behooves us to see ourselves by this criteria as well as others.
And to check in with ourselves to make sure we are acting as we desire and that those we associate with are as well. For instance, I love my father. But I must acknowledge that the man I grew up with has faded and been replaced by a dogmatic extreme right leaning person. I don’t think in his heart he is evil. But his choices and speech say otherwise.
Hope held in cold hands long aching
Heart bled hot close to breaking
Silence holds ponderous minutes
A word softly spoken
A touch longed for but not expected
Reality warms what hope stole
spin in madness
silk dancing on the wind
sweetened wine and drunken song
nose to nose
looking into eyes
intimacy amidst distraction
shortened pulses and wandering hands
lips in warmth and tasting
in dances beginning
One of the things I miss about not being in a relationship is the lack of sexual banter. Since I’m a erotica writer there is generally some level of ongoing fantasy play via text or email(or maybe that’s just my personality). There are many different things I miss but a steamy message full of promise in the middle of the afternoon is in the top 5.
Every change that truly effects who you are is a destruction. It’s like a molting, the old falls away and while the appearance may be similar the core is different. Often there is a struggle to get free of that old useless skin, to hold onto the safety of the familiar. But this safety is illusion. We prefer that things remain the same and because of this we blind ourselves to the changes in others and in ourselves. Often taking a violent revelation to allow the scales to fall away. Not that what I do, constant self examination, is any better. The consequences are different. But an acknowledgement that the only true constant is change must be made and if this is true then would it not be better to embrace that change rather than hide from it? I believe so.