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 Thoughts destined to be washed away by the tides of life. |
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I've been studying my cover photo for a while now, and it seems to me that it is more than just a photo of what is there that can be seen, more than just three white rocks stacked on a beach. It contains an important question about the future, about what happens long after the photographer has gone. What will happen to our pile of stones when the tide comes in? Will it topple or has the architect built this structure at a safe distance? I don't know what will happen to these words that I stack here on the sand. They may prove safely distant, or they may be swallowed up by a rush of self-doubt. They may be here for a season. They may lose their balance and be scattered by the shoreline, or be hidden away under shifting sands. Perhaps someday, the tides of life will reclaim them. Or maybe that's just a bunch of poetic, romantic nonsense. After all, this is just a blog. |
| Came across this partial poem hiding in an untitled document file. Date on it is September 2, 2012. No idea what it was written for, no idea what the prompt was, that is. It was probably written for Helium. It was in a folder entitled "Endings" but I didn't write down the prompts within that category. I am assuming it was about old age, an older couple no longer communicating, and the empty nest. This was my final attempt To reach into your attention span Which you keep behind your newspaper Rustling pages one over another Wrestling with headlines. grimacing at the arrows on the stock page This was my final attempt To escape the emptiness of rooms Where no homework is done to Top 40 hits Where the ghosts of childhood hang In faded posters and gold-starred reports being slowly buried in years of dust They say "write what you know" but that's not always possible. Sometimes you run out of what you know. And then there are prompts and you've got to make something up. For some reason, people assume all poetry to be autobiograhical. I guess that's because everyone goes through that teenage poetic angst phase. But I don't think poetry has to represent actual experiences. For instance, I don't believe Wordsworth really wandered lonely as a cloud. I dont know - he might have wandered, he might have been lonely - but I don't think he was floating across the sky. Poets work to make the common seem extraordinary, but it's all in our heads and overly excitable imaginations. |
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I felt so much calmer before I read that ...
After reading your post, I just might take a break, too. We are going on a fall color trip next week. Maybe I'll do it then...I don't know. I'm finding I am not spending the time on my writing as I'd like to. So much is going on in RL, too, right now.
