Poetry competition CLOSED 28th September 2018 00:54am
WINNER
Josh (Joshua Bond)
Josh (Joshua Bond)
RUNNERS-UP:
Jade-Pandora
and eswaller
Letters to a Young Poet
Poetry Contest Description
Rilke's timeless letters about poetry, sensitive observation, and the complicated workings of the human heart.
Co-Host: JohnnyBlaze
Part II in an ongoing series introducing serious writers of DUP to the most well-known poets, both classical and modern.
Letters to a Young Poet is a collection of ten letters written by Bohemian-Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke to Franz Xaver Kappus, a 19-year-old officer cadet at the Theresian Military Academy in Wiener Neustadt.
Your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to write a letter to a young poet in the style of Rilke.
Guidelines:
* Actually reading the book would help *
1) Prefaced each letter with an evocative notation of the city in which you are writing from.
2) Spend most of the time encouraging your recipient in their own work, a one-on-one equivalent of the modern writing workshop. Advise how the young poet should feel, love, and seek truth in trying to understand and experience the world around him and engage the world of art. ( excerpt below ):
Go into yourself and test the deeps in which your life takes rise; at its source you will find the answer to the question whether you must create. Accept it, just as it sounds, without inquiring into it. Perhaps it will turn out that you are called to be an artist. Then take that destiny upon yourself and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what recompense might come from outside.
3) Publish the letter to your own page and hashtag it #Rilke.
4) Share it here ( images are permitted ).
Rules:
1. Up to 10 per each member ( including alternate ID's ). You will not be judged on the number you submit, but the content; however, the more quality letters you pen, the more points you receive.
It will be possible for one beautifully moving, emotionally rendered letter to steal the show out of a mediocre 10 entries.
2. Try to keep the body close to 500 words ( over or under a bit is acceptable ). Heading, inside address, salutation, complementary close, and signature line will not be included in the word count ( remember, these are letters and must be in format ).
3. You may create a fictitious recipient, someone you know in person, or select someone from DUP. If the latter, please use a false address to protect the member's privacy.
4. Judging will be conducted by a panel which includes myself. We'll be evaluating format, spelling, grammar, punctuation, and emotional sincerity of content.
The top three winners will be posted with their scores.
Any additional questions just ask. You have one month. Best of luck to you each.
Letters to a Young Poet(ess) I
August 29, 2018
Ahavati
Cherokee, North Carolina
Dearest Poppy,
I received your letter just yesterday. I must admit my heart sank when I became aware of your feelings. Especially in light of such a deep accompaniment of expression, obviously demonstrating great depth of emotion.
Perhaps such emotion is reaching up from the quagmire of doubt toward the rung of growth. While you may feel you're in a rut, the enclosed poem contradicts that thought with hard evidence to the contrary. While I wish to focus more upon the crown of your feelings than the jewel of poetry adorning it, I will genuinely express I have grown to love your ability to evoke a state of presence and duel empathy through your verse. This is no easy feat for modern day poets to achieve. Herein lies your true gift I believe has yet to be unwrapped, by even you.
I've personally experienced and observed such times are steps toward higher ground in the craft. Unlike the filmmaker or makeup artist, for whom each day presents a fresh script to read or face to mask, a poet can't always guarantee he or she will wake up with inspiration prompting their ability to express themselves. This has been the truth for even for the world's most accomplished and prolific writers; words can seemingly disappear from our ability to stitch them into coherant verses that convey our emotions (or, subsequently, arrive incohesively as unpublishable torrents). This period can transpire for days, weeks, or even decades.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, as he penned in his notebook in 1804, at the age of 32, "so completely has a whole year passed, with scarcely the fruits of a month.—O Sorrow and Shame … I have done nothing!” Coleridge's best-known work was written while he was young, in his mid-twenties. Sadly he spent the rest of his life taking opium and bemoaning the loss of his gift. Believing he had lost such a natural ability to overcome such a temporary period in life gave it the power to manifest truth. For so a man thinks he shall become.
Another such case would be Stephen King, despite his seemingly usual rate of production. "Writer's block", or, as you so aptly put it, a "rut", for him may be defined as 5,000 words instead of the usual 20,000. Yet, apparently, not even King is immune to the plague of drought that affects all writers at some point of their experience:
"There may be a stretch of weeks or months when it doesn't come at all; this is called writer's block. Some writers in the throes of writer's block think their muses have died, but I don't think that happens often; I think what happens is that the writers themselves sow the edges of their clearing with poison bait to keep their muses away, often without knowing they are doing it." ( The Washington Post in 2006 )
In his book On Writing, he described one of the few times he became mired in the rut known as "writer's block". He decided not to present his new novel Sword in the Darkness to his college class. This led to a four-month period of not writing, drinking beer, and watching soap operas.
In having read your enclosure, I can only express with certainty ( being my age ) what you should become despite current circumstances of fleeting thought. For that is all thoughts are, fleeing moments of experience designed to encrust us into the present, rusting away our years in disbelief. Or, propel us onward over the hedge of doubt where fresh scenery awaits: the land of milk and honey, where olive groves and family gardens bloom abundantly in health, harmony, and wondrous poetry born of the fertile soil of faith and trust in the process.
After all, many are called, but few are chosen to follow the path by their own accord, overcoming obstacles of immeasurable height. You, my Dearest Poppy, are, and ever shall be one who excels on the wings of poetry.
Yours Very Truly
Ahavati
#RainerMariaRilke
Ahavati
Cherokee, North Carolina
Dearest Poppy,
I received your letter just yesterday. I must admit my heart sank when I became aware of your feelings. Especially in light of such a deep accompaniment of expression, obviously demonstrating great depth of emotion.
Perhaps such emotion is reaching up from the quagmire of doubt toward the rung of growth. While you may feel you're in a rut, the enclosed poem contradicts that thought with hard evidence to the contrary. While I wish to focus more upon the crown of your feelings than the jewel of poetry adorning it, I will genuinely express I have grown to love your ability to evoke a state of presence and duel empathy through your verse. This is no easy feat for modern day poets to achieve. Herein lies your true gift I believe has yet to be unwrapped, by even you.
I've personally experienced and observed such times are steps toward higher ground in the craft. Unlike the filmmaker or makeup artist, for whom each day presents a fresh script to read or face to mask, a poet can't always guarantee he or she will wake up with inspiration prompting their ability to express themselves. This has been the truth for even for the world's most accomplished and prolific writers; words can seemingly disappear from our ability to stitch them into coherant verses that convey our emotions (or, subsequently, arrive incohesively as unpublishable torrents). This period can transpire for days, weeks, or even decades.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, as he penned in his notebook in 1804, at the age of 32, "so completely has a whole year passed, with scarcely the fruits of a month.—O Sorrow and Shame … I have done nothing!” Coleridge's best-known work was written while he was young, in his mid-twenties. Sadly he spent the rest of his life taking opium and bemoaning the loss of his gift. Believing he had lost such a natural ability to overcome such a temporary period in life gave it the power to manifest truth. For so a man thinks he shall become.
Another such case would be Stephen King, despite his seemingly usual rate of production. "Writer's block", or, as you so aptly put it, a "rut", for him may be defined as 5,000 words instead of the usual 20,000. Yet, apparently, not even King is immune to the plague of drought that affects all writers at some point of their experience:
"There may be a stretch of weeks or months when it doesn't come at all; this is called writer's block. Some writers in the throes of writer's block think their muses have died, but I don't think that happens often; I think what happens is that the writers themselves sow the edges of their clearing with poison bait to keep their muses away, often without knowing they are doing it." ( The Washington Post in 2006 )
In his book On Writing, he described one of the few times he became mired in the rut known as "writer's block". He decided not to present his new novel Sword in the Darkness to his college class. This led to a four-month period of not writing, drinking beer, and watching soap operas.
In having read your enclosure, I can only express with certainty ( being my age ) what you should become despite current circumstances of fleeting thought. For that is all thoughts are, fleeing moments of experience designed to encrust us into the present, rusting away our years in disbelief. Or, propel us onward over the hedge of doubt where fresh scenery awaits: the land of milk and honey, where olive groves and family gardens bloom abundantly in health, harmony, and wondrous poetry born of the fertile soil of faith and trust in the process.
After all, many are called, but few are chosen to follow the path by their own accord, overcoming obstacles of immeasurable height. You, my Dearest Poppy, are, and ever shall be one who excels on the wings of poetry.
Yours Very Truly
Ahavati
#RainerMariaRilke
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
Due to formatting issues, the salutation and signature are left-aligned.
This is an example, not an entry; however, it is more than sincere in its expression.
Anonymous
Related submission no longer exists.
Anonymous
Related submission no longer exists.
https://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/318761-letter-to-an-old-poet/
Another example only entry.
Great competition idea, T.! ❤📝
Another example only entry.
Great competition idea, T.! ❤📝
Letters to a Young Poet(ess) II
August 30, 2018
Ahavati
Cherokee, North Carolina
Dear Younger Poetess,
These mountains are beginning to herald autumn. Soon they will sing in a cacophony of color that resembles the pure essence of poetry. I am enjoying a view of distant storms from my veranda while sipping evening tea. I just finished reading your poetry.
I read between the lines of your verses, where resides meaning within the space of breath. Where there is joy, there is also pain; where there is longing, there is also contentment prevalent as sadness settling in age. The once wild state of your being, the turbulent past of your origin, has all but molded you into the extreme talent you have become.
The immeasurable depth from which you write is both crowned with experience and inspiration from a poetess gone much too soon and young. And yet she somehow lives through your words, born of her very existence. It is for this reason you must carry forth the torch of poetic justice for those gone beyond the physical veil that the living can never visit. But, rather, are touched by the contributions of such poets and poetesses.
You said once that all you desired was to be taken seriously, as though certain writers in your circle of admiration could not see you for such. Your young age is maturing into wisdom, and one day you will look back upon these days as stepping stones to something greater: your authentic self; the woman and writer you were destined to become each moment of joy and suffering it took to arrive.
I write this with certainty because I have traveled the road you now tread, my back ladened with desire for something I thought was lacking in the presence of another. Nothing lacks within yourself; you are ever whole unto being and fulfillment if you so believe. For it isn't the letting go that hurts, but the holding on to that which you think you must have, be it just a dream, or a dream of someone.
For I am not so old that I do not remember the unequalled yoke of my days, the miserable presence of emptiness copulating with the idea of escape. But to where? To what? To whom? Had I only known of poetry, the power thereof unto salvation for the writer at heart, as I believe you to be.
Poetry salvaged me from the bonds of humanity because it's in my blood, as it is in yours: red, warm, alive with musery. Be you a physical escapee of circumstance, or a virtual dreamer of something different, poetry remains the same within you. And should you doubt its presence from the dormancy of hours or days, when words themselves seem to abandon the very expression of your creation, know this; Poetry is not a choice that can ever be deserted.
Once born with poetry in your veins, you reside as its fruition amid the space of each breath. For it is only the space which allows the emphasis of meaning to create life. Therefore, never doubt the power of yourself or the destiny of your poetry to be lost in even the direst of circumstances.
You are never alone as long as you breathe, despite how lonely you may feel. You are but one breath from creation while resting in the space of meaning. You will always exhale into the inkblood of a poem, written or imagined.
And yes; you are beautiful. You're also enough.
Very Truly Yours,
Ahavati
P.S. - I still have your gift on my china hutch.
#RainerMariaRilke
Ahavati
Cherokee, North Carolina
Dear Younger Poetess,
These mountains are beginning to herald autumn. Soon they will sing in a cacophony of color that resembles the pure essence of poetry. I am enjoying a view of distant storms from my veranda while sipping evening tea. I just finished reading your poetry.
I read between the lines of your verses, where resides meaning within the space of breath. Where there is joy, there is also pain; where there is longing, there is also contentment prevalent as sadness settling in age. The once wild state of your being, the turbulent past of your origin, has all but molded you into the extreme talent you have become.
The immeasurable depth from which you write is both crowned with experience and inspiration from a poetess gone much too soon and young. And yet she somehow lives through your words, born of her very existence. It is for this reason you must carry forth the torch of poetic justice for those gone beyond the physical veil that the living can never visit. But, rather, are touched by the contributions of such poets and poetesses.
You said once that all you desired was to be taken seriously, as though certain writers in your circle of admiration could not see you for such. Your young age is maturing into wisdom, and one day you will look back upon these days as stepping stones to something greater: your authentic self; the woman and writer you were destined to become each moment of joy and suffering it took to arrive.
I write this with certainty because I have traveled the road you now tread, my back ladened with desire for something I thought was lacking in the presence of another. Nothing lacks within yourself; you are ever whole unto being and fulfillment if you so believe. For it isn't the letting go that hurts, but the holding on to that which you think you must have, be it just a dream, or a dream of someone.
For I am not so old that I do not remember the unequalled yoke of my days, the miserable presence of emptiness copulating with the idea of escape. But to where? To what? To whom? Had I only known of poetry, the power thereof unto salvation for the writer at heart, as I believe you to be.
Poetry salvaged me from the bonds of humanity because it's in my blood, as it is in yours: red, warm, alive with musery. Be you a physical escapee of circumstance, or a virtual dreamer of something different, poetry remains the same within you. And should you doubt its presence from the dormancy of hours or days, when words themselves seem to abandon the very expression of your creation, know this; Poetry is not a choice that can ever be deserted.
Once born with poetry in your veins, you reside as its fruition amid the space of each breath. For it is only the space which allows the emphasis of meaning to create life. Therefore, never doubt the power of yourself or the destiny of your poetry to be lost in even the direst of circumstances.
You are never alone as long as you breathe, despite how lonely you may feel. You are but one breath from creation while resting in the space of meaning. You will always exhale into the inkblood of a poem, written or imagined.
And yes; you are beautiful. You're also enough.
Very Truly Yours,
Ahavati
P.S. - I still have your gift on my china hutch.
#RainerMariaRilke
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
Non-entry, example only, though the sentiment is truth.
Letters to a Young Poet(ess) III
August 31, 2018
Ahavati
Cherokee, North Carolina
Dearest Duende,
I am writing amidst a beautiful view of the blue ridge mountains; I'll enclose a post card so you may enjoy the same while reading. Currently a hint of change permeates the trees, as though whispering vibrations of color they will cyclically attract: golden ocher, burnt sienna, cadmium lemon, raw umber, alizerin crimson. Soon they will don Joseph's coat of many colors quilted as far as the eye can see - before releasing slowly, transforming to naked bones. Isn't it beautiful how they teach us to let go gracefully until renewed by an inevitable spring?
I have come to believe that we too are cycled evolution; emerging from dormancy, whether returning as human; or, breaking as an azure ring of sapphire on a butterfly's wing. Can you imagine seeing trough a butterfly's eyes over an ultra-violet spectrum? It would be more exquisite than imaginable, especially if your favorite color was purple. Butterflies use their senses to survive in the world: migrate, find food, mates, safely lay eggs, and avoid toxic predators. While caterpillars can sense more tangibly: touch, taste, smell, sound, and light. Isn't it a wonderful metaphor for us as well? We gestate a caterpillar, squeeze our way through a narrow birth canal, slowly and painfully that fluid can circulate independently of our mother's umbilical cord.
How ironic in metaphor that caterpillars are earth bound while butterflies have wings. I believe this to be our ultimate experience; each life lived advances us toward weightless flight amid spiritual fruits of fate. How must we feel as caterpillars; do we know our destiny, plod through the brush until a gossamer sleep envelopes us, rely on innate instinct to guide us. Do you believe that everything you have experienced was pre-chosen by you in order to evolve? While it sounds far-fetched, for who would desire such painful circumstance, it is true, nonetheless.
Your recent strife was merely the contrast of what you truly want in your life. When charting your growth, you realized the insignificance of agony compared to the benefits of evolution. Torment is but a blink of an eye in eternity - while maturity is forever. There are those who repeat the cycle of abuse because they fail to recognize not only red flags of predatory behavior, but the value within themselves to realize all they need lies within their own rib-caged heart of breath. To see oneself as one's Savior is the ultimate step to independence of happiness that relies upon no other: Enlightenment.
You are unashamed in profession of your humble past because you reach for the future instead of hiding behind truth. By refusing to don a perfect mask, you boldly face potential judgment of those less awake. By standing tall amid the race of sisterhood that has so often succumbed to the dominance of men ( and women ) who are less evolved, you reveal yourself to the illumination of Source - where all strength is drawn. You will see this Source through your very eyes when you gaze in the mirror; you will feel this Source when you whisper to yourself, "I Love You"; you will become this Source when you accept love and forgiveness the little girl within you cries for daily. When you nurture her as you would a child, wrapping your arms around and rocking yourself, you will come to know the comfort of your true Being; you will come to know the undeniable truth that you are, and always have been enough.
When you realize that very veracity, your well-spring of life will flow in the direction it is meant to go, and your vibration will attract like-minded who in turn are happy within themselves. There is nothing more exquisite than two people walking side by side who are deliriously in love with life. Not for what it offers, for that is gratitude. But, for what they can contribute individually to make it a better place. There is might in numbers - but one small person can make a difference building an inclusive bridge, than a mob mentality destroying it. When two like-minded, independently joyous individuals come together on the foundation of friendship, there is no limit to the heights love will rise -- much like butterflies in flight.
This, my Dear Duende, is the vision I see for you, whether or not you are aware of its truth. I have walked your shoes, and reached a stage of evolution recognizing steps I have taken - paths I should choose, and those to avoid. The least I can do is extend a torch of knowledge to another woman and poet of such great esteem as you yourself hold among your peers.
And, being younger does not mean that one day you cannot hold light for me as well; you already do as a reminder of honesty and truth. For who doesn't, despite age and experience, feel lost while gestating inside the cacophony of silence, held within a dark cocoon we must all endure countless times before our wings have spread and dried?
Very Truly Yours,
Ahavati
P.S. - I found your enclosures of poetry a testament to the beauty of survival at its most poetic.
#RainerMariaRilke
Ahavati
Cherokee, North Carolina
Dearest Duende,
I am writing amidst a beautiful view of the blue ridge mountains; I'll enclose a post card so you may enjoy the same while reading. Currently a hint of change permeates the trees, as though whispering vibrations of color they will cyclically attract: golden ocher, burnt sienna, cadmium lemon, raw umber, alizerin crimson. Soon they will don Joseph's coat of many colors quilted as far as the eye can see - before releasing slowly, transforming to naked bones. Isn't it beautiful how they teach us to let go gracefully until renewed by an inevitable spring?
I have come to believe that we too are cycled evolution; emerging from dormancy, whether returning as human; or, breaking as an azure ring of sapphire on a butterfly's wing. Can you imagine seeing trough a butterfly's eyes over an ultra-violet spectrum? It would be more exquisite than imaginable, especially if your favorite color was purple. Butterflies use their senses to survive in the world: migrate, find food, mates, safely lay eggs, and avoid toxic predators. While caterpillars can sense more tangibly: touch, taste, smell, sound, and light. Isn't it a wonderful metaphor for us as well? We gestate a caterpillar, squeeze our way through a narrow birth canal, slowly and painfully that fluid can circulate independently of our mother's umbilical cord.
How ironic in metaphor that caterpillars are earth bound while butterflies have wings. I believe this to be our ultimate experience; each life lived advances us toward weightless flight amid spiritual fruits of fate. How must we feel as caterpillars; do we know our destiny, plod through the brush until a gossamer sleep envelopes us, rely on innate instinct to guide us. Do you believe that everything you have experienced was pre-chosen by you in order to evolve? While it sounds far-fetched, for who would desire such painful circumstance, it is true, nonetheless.
Your recent strife was merely the contrast of what you truly want in your life. When charting your growth, you realized the insignificance of agony compared to the benefits of evolution. Torment is but a blink of an eye in eternity - while maturity is forever. There are those who repeat the cycle of abuse because they fail to recognize not only red flags of predatory behavior, but the value within themselves to realize all they need lies within their own rib-caged heart of breath. To see oneself as one's Savior is the ultimate step to independence of happiness that relies upon no other: Enlightenment.
You are unashamed in profession of your humble past because you reach for the future instead of hiding behind truth. By refusing to don a perfect mask, you boldly face potential judgment of those less awake. By standing tall amid the race of sisterhood that has so often succumbed to the dominance of men ( and women ) who are less evolved, you reveal yourself to the illumination of Source - where all strength is drawn. You will see this Source through your very eyes when you gaze in the mirror; you will feel this Source when you whisper to yourself, "I Love You"; you will become this Source when you accept love and forgiveness the little girl within you cries for daily. When you nurture her as you would a child, wrapping your arms around and rocking yourself, you will come to know the comfort of your true Being; you will come to know the undeniable truth that you are, and always have been enough.
When you realize that very veracity, your well-spring of life will flow in the direction it is meant to go, and your vibration will attract like-minded who in turn are happy within themselves. There is nothing more exquisite than two people walking side by side who are deliriously in love with life. Not for what it offers, for that is gratitude. But, for what they can contribute individually to make it a better place. There is might in numbers - but one small person can make a difference building an inclusive bridge, than a mob mentality destroying it. When two like-minded, independently joyous individuals come together on the foundation of friendship, there is no limit to the heights love will rise -- much like butterflies in flight.
This, my Dear Duende, is the vision I see for you, whether or not you are aware of its truth. I have walked your shoes, and reached a stage of evolution recognizing steps I have taken - paths I should choose, and those to avoid. The least I can do is extend a torch of knowledge to another woman and poet of such great esteem as you yourself hold among your peers.
And, being younger does not mean that one day you cannot hold light for me as well; you already do as a reminder of honesty and truth. For who doesn't, despite age and experience, feel lost while gestating inside the cacophony of silence, held within a dark cocoon we must all endure countless times before our wings have spread and dried?
Very Truly Yours,
Ahavati
P.S. - I found your enclosures of poetry a testament to the beauty of survival at its most poetic.
#RainerMariaRilke
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
Non-entry, but sincere in content.
Letters to a Young Poet(ess) IV
September 2, 2018
Ahavati
Lake Lure, North Carolina
Dearest Elena,
I wish you could experience the energy of the blue ridge mountains in their summer finale. Everything is lush, yet thinning its grip on the humidity so prevalent in the south. A myriad of green is altering shades according to their impending autumn wardrobe, now in the final stages of production. Soon the curtain will rise, and thousands will migrate here from all over the world to witness the spectacular carnival of color that cannot be described with words, only experienced in spirit.
I received your letter with the enclosed poem, and must confess I was utterly humbled by your sincere expression of gratitude regarding my meager efforts to inspire you. When it is I, who most graciously should thank you for your poetic offering. How could I encourage you, except that I be inspired too?
This is how your poetry affects me: every contribution is intricately woven from personal experience or dreams. Pieces of yourself project an authentic signature as radio signals. These signals ripple through the cosmos and connect with like-minded, reminding us we are not alone. The resonation is a deeply felt recognition of spirit, relief in having been received in such a beautiful means as poetry.
So, you see, it is not I that am worthy of gratitude, but yourself for steadfastly enduring the often difficult tasks of the taskmaster that is poetry. For how could I be a mirage, but for you braving the heat of the desert in search of the wellspring that is poetry? How could I be an angel of deliverance, but were you not withstanding the torment of rutted emptiness escorted by doubt and uncertainty where writing is concerned?
If I am your tree, then I undoubetdly exist only because you nourish me with the rain of words that is poetry. How can roots of art survive without such sustenance of inspirational itself. So, inasmuch as you are grateful for me, I am for you. For there cannot be a giving tree without someone to gift. That recipient is more oft than not one of love; that is true gratitude and secret of the poem.
The cycle of poet and reader are interchangeable in honorary treasures befitting musery of a pure heart: a deep respect for the written word, and admiration for its development. Both have inspired some of the greatest poetry known to mankind. I cannot think of myself as wise lest I am continuously learning from those such as yourself.
What you see in me is a mere reflection of you; one that you blueprinted into your own experience. I am but a beacon along your voyage you yourself lit before departing. My job, per our sacred contract, is to maintain the flame you ignited from your desire to write. So when you see that light shining on the horizon through the inkened dark of doubt, or that sign pointing in the right direction when you thought you were lost, or hear an angel replenishing your empty trough with inspiration, remember, it is not me -- but you.
I am but your servant on this quest, one who, according to your letter and beautiful poem, has the honor of saying to myself, "Phew! Thank you, Universe; I did not let her down." And also, "Thank you, Elena, for the trust you placed in me to remind you of yourself, and all, and everything you are, and are yet to be: a Dreamer and Poet whose wish upon a star became truth."
In sincere gratitude, I remain
Your humble servant in poetry,
Ahavati
P.S. I shall always treasure your poem as one of my most prized possessions.
#RainerMariaRilke
Ahavati
Lake Lure, North Carolina
Dearest Elena,
I wish you could experience the energy of the blue ridge mountains in their summer finale. Everything is lush, yet thinning its grip on the humidity so prevalent in the south. A myriad of green is altering shades according to their impending autumn wardrobe, now in the final stages of production. Soon the curtain will rise, and thousands will migrate here from all over the world to witness the spectacular carnival of color that cannot be described with words, only experienced in spirit.
I received your letter with the enclosed poem, and must confess I was utterly humbled by your sincere expression of gratitude regarding my meager efforts to inspire you. When it is I, who most graciously should thank you for your poetic offering. How could I encourage you, except that I be inspired too?
This is how your poetry affects me: every contribution is intricately woven from personal experience or dreams. Pieces of yourself project an authentic signature as radio signals. These signals ripple through the cosmos and connect with like-minded, reminding us we are not alone. The resonation is a deeply felt recognition of spirit, relief in having been received in such a beautiful means as poetry.
So, you see, it is not I that am worthy of gratitude, but yourself for steadfastly enduring the often difficult tasks of the taskmaster that is poetry. For how could I be a mirage, but for you braving the heat of the desert in search of the wellspring that is poetry? How could I be an angel of deliverance, but were you not withstanding the torment of rutted emptiness escorted by doubt and uncertainty where writing is concerned?
If I am your tree, then I undoubetdly exist only because you nourish me with the rain of words that is poetry. How can roots of art survive without such sustenance of inspirational itself. So, inasmuch as you are grateful for me, I am for you. For there cannot be a giving tree without someone to gift. That recipient is more oft than not one of love; that is true gratitude and secret of the poem.
The cycle of poet and reader are interchangeable in honorary treasures befitting musery of a pure heart: a deep respect for the written word, and admiration for its development. Both have inspired some of the greatest poetry known to mankind. I cannot think of myself as wise lest I am continuously learning from those such as yourself.
What you see in me is a mere reflection of you; one that you blueprinted into your own experience. I am but a beacon along your voyage you yourself lit before departing. My job, per our sacred contract, is to maintain the flame you ignited from your desire to write. So when you see that light shining on the horizon through the inkened dark of doubt, or that sign pointing in the right direction when you thought you were lost, or hear an angel replenishing your empty trough with inspiration, remember, it is not me -- but you.
I am but your servant on this quest, one who, according to your letter and beautiful poem, has the honor of saying to myself, "Phew! Thank you, Universe; I did not let her down." And also, "Thank you, Elena, for the trust you placed in me to remind you of yourself, and all, and everything you are, and are yet to be: a Dreamer and Poet whose wish upon a star became truth."
In sincere gratitude, I remain
Your humble servant in poetry,
Ahavati
P.S. I shall always treasure your poem as one of my most prized possessions.
#RainerMariaRilke
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
Letters to a Young Poet V
September 3, 2018
Chimney Rock
North Carolina
My Dearest J,
Despite being beautiful here, I must admit holidays completely dominate the peaceful serenity of mountain life. The shop owners are preparing for winter, when only locals will be able to access privately. Words and stories will flow freely in truth without worry about upsetting misplaced sensibilities of a majority of tourists. It's not that we're antisocial or unwelcoming to the stranger; we're furthest from that. Visitors to these parts don't seem to understand the value of things, and thus expect a cheap sale for something worth so much to our heritage.
I will be ever-so-grateful for the arrival of cool weather, as I was your beautiful card and poem. I must admit it drew tears from a relatively dry and humid day. To be considered half of something you love, is to become the very part of what you love. You begin to realize the veil separating individuality is no more than a thick illusion of conditioning. We are products of our environment and naturally mimic surroundings when young, whether intentional or not. Until the age of accountability begins to fuel our strength to reject the herd for a solo journey into self.
Yet, that is the very power of poetry. It evokes that deep sense of belonging that connects poet and reader despite distance or decades.
I actually wanted the last letter of this series to be to you, so it's ironic you would mention No 10 to me. The beauty of these letters, is they're genuinely sincere; therefore, must be completely inspired to be authentic in content. These are not those which can be written for the sake of writing, competition, or number. On the contrary, they can only be written from the heart of Love for the sake of Love expanding. Much like your poem -- reaching beyond the sanctuary of your beautiful mind to another; a self-projection of existing energy into an atmospheric receptor waiting to be charged.
This, too, is the power of poetry. A dimensional expression of self channeled through a filter of poetics, containing the power to bond the chasm from disbelief to belief.
I wait for you as I do Autumn with all her splendid regalia of color: her golden sceptre reflecting light upon the shift of planet, the multicolored coats of sentinals laid before her feet on dampened ground, the migrational patterns of birds flying with the wind. And Us, watching with an awestruck innocense of youthful firsts: a shooting star, belief in the power of that first wish, sparkler we hand-held all by ourselves. This is Autumn - the replenishing breath of fresh air outside of an oven gone stale.
This is also Us: a dormancy of seed awaiting its eventual spring.
Cycles appear endless through experiences. Season are mere months or years to some, while lasting lifetimes for others. I do not know how I know this is our Autumn, nor do I know how long such a season will last. Perhaps weeks or years, perhaps the rest of our lives. And while we can never accurately remember the time frame of such things in this flesh, we can know what do to in the interim of our presence within it: be grateful for opportunities to make memories that will resonate as reminders in the future, near or distant; relish the moments falling into our lives as flakes of snow colored red delicious, pumpkin spice, maize harvest, and candied yam; give thanks for the process of elimination from learning curves of black eyes, broken bones, and bruised egos. What are they but painful reminders of Life lived to the fullest.
But, most importantly, feel the rhythmic chant of two halves beating hard the stretched skins of their dreams.
I wait for you like that, and so much more that can never be said, only felt in one half of the other now whole through the discovery and knowledge of Love.
In deepest admiration and respect, I remain
Patiently Yours,
Ahavati
P.S. - A buttered leaf just trickled onto my lap as though wax sealing the envelope! I shall have it framed along with your poem.
#RainerMariaRilke
Chimney Rock
North Carolina
My Dearest J,
Despite being beautiful here, I must admit holidays completely dominate the peaceful serenity of mountain life. The shop owners are preparing for winter, when only locals will be able to access privately. Words and stories will flow freely in truth without worry about upsetting misplaced sensibilities of a majority of tourists. It's not that we're antisocial or unwelcoming to the stranger; we're furthest from that. Visitors to these parts don't seem to understand the value of things, and thus expect a cheap sale for something worth so much to our heritage.
I will be ever-so-grateful for the arrival of cool weather, as I was your beautiful card and poem. I must admit it drew tears from a relatively dry and humid day. To be considered half of something you love, is to become the very part of what you love. You begin to realize the veil separating individuality is no more than a thick illusion of conditioning. We are products of our environment and naturally mimic surroundings when young, whether intentional or not. Until the age of accountability begins to fuel our strength to reject the herd for a solo journey into self.
Yet, that is the very power of poetry. It evokes that deep sense of belonging that connects poet and reader despite distance or decades.
I actually wanted the last letter of this series to be to you, so it's ironic you would mention No 10 to me. The beauty of these letters, is they're genuinely sincere; therefore, must be completely inspired to be authentic in content. These are not those which can be written for the sake of writing, competition, or number. On the contrary, they can only be written from the heart of Love for the sake of Love expanding. Much like your poem -- reaching beyond the sanctuary of your beautiful mind to another; a self-projection of existing energy into an atmospheric receptor waiting to be charged.
This, too, is the power of poetry. A dimensional expression of self channeled through a filter of poetics, containing the power to bond the chasm from disbelief to belief.
I wait for you as I do Autumn with all her splendid regalia of color: her golden sceptre reflecting light upon the shift of planet, the multicolored coats of sentinals laid before her feet on dampened ground, the migrational patterns of birds flying with the wind. And Us, watching with an awestruck innocense of youthful firsts: a shooting star, belief in the power of that first wish, sparkler we hand-held all by ourselves. This is Autumn - the replenishing breath of fresh air outside of an oven gone stale.
This is also Us: a dormancy of seed awaiting its eventual spring.
Cycles appear endless through experiences. Season are mere months or years to some, while lasting lifetimes for others. I do not know how I know this is our Autumn, nor do I know how long such a season will last. Perhaps weeks or years, perhaps the rest of our lives. And while we can never accurately remember the time frame of such things in this flesh, we can know what do to in the interim of our presence within it: be grateful for opportunities to make memories that will resonate as reminders in the future, near or distant; relish the moments falling into our lives as flakes of snow colored red delicious, pumpkin spice, maize harvest, and candied yam; give thanks for the process of elimination from learning curves of black eyes, broken bones, and bruised egos. What are they but painful reminders of Life lived to the fullest.
But, most importantly, feel the rhythmic chant of two halves beating hard the stretched skins of their dreams.
I wait for you like that, and so much more that can never be said, only felt in one half of the other now whole through the discovery and knowledge of Love.
In deepest admiration and respect, I remain
Patiently Yours,
Ahavati
P.S. - A buttered leaf just trickled onto my lap as though wax sealing the envelope! I shall have it framed along with your poem.
#RainerMariaRilke
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
Non-entry though the sentiment is genuine.
Letters to a Young Poet VI
September 7, 2018
Ahavati
Cherokee, North Carolina
Dear D,
I am writing from the heat of a southern mountain day after re-reading T.S. Eliot's 'The Wasteland'. Such a beautiful piece of literature. The 'Four Quartets' is seasonably palatable for the emotion, as well as 'The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock'. Have you noticed weather can affect what you read? I lean toward hearthy poetry as summer closes. The imagery of warm morning fires and smell of food in the air, as though harvest has bloomed - not in the fields but the tables.
I was pleasantly surprised in receiving your message; it was an unexpected delight. Your commentary regarding my example of respectful discourse, as well as quality of poetry was humbling. We never know how others view us unless they take the time to express themselves. I love how poetry binds people of like-mindedness to connect on a more personal level. Particularly in absence.
Absence somehow amplifies the urgency to inform others how we feel. Perhaps we've experienced, to some degree, the painful realization of those we loved departing without knowing. The hollow echo remains throughout our own at not having voiced our feelings. While deeply appreciative of your concern, I assure you I am fine.
I would ask you not to worry about this perceived injustice, though I do understand as humans and artists we are compelled to defend the right of peaceful and respectful expression. Freedom is so paramount to our creative process. Our experience here is so minute compared to the infinite ones we'll choose. It was once said that each lifetime is a grain of sand; we could live 10,000 of them and barely remove a mountaintop.
For me, poetry lives between each space of choice, just waiting to be born. It would seem that way for you as well, in light of reading your work. For others it might be music, painting, and so forth. We, as poets, tend to focus on the beauty of creation, in addition to the emotions of experience, e.g. - love, pain, birth, death, loyalty, betrayal, and, yes, as you mentioned, injustice, to release and understand what we're feeling. To communicate our depths to others and ourselves.
No; I do not advise writing letters of complaint for my situation, or uprising. I do not possess that mindset for two reasons: firstly, I believe I have ordained everything I experience in order to evolve. A decade ago, maybe sooner, before this revelation, I would've resisted. Now, I choose to fully absorb the gamut of whatever arises. I am not referring to crimes such as theft, murder, etc. Or the defense of helpless victims such as children or animals. Those acts should be dealt with accordingly; Secondly, This situation isn't just about me, but others ( even yourself ). We're all a part of this to learn something from it. These types of circumstance push us from complacency and test our resolve truthfully.
Have we recently claimed how we would react during a certain scenario? Have we professed we trust the Universe or God to handle a situation? Have we sworn we would never do a certain thing? Times such as this test us and reveal how strong ( or weak ) our convictions are. Therefore, I would urge you instead to continue focusing on your poetry. Allow the art of words to inspire you and the expression of poetry to communicate not just with others, but those who will follow long after we're gone. Those who will read it as a homing beacon of recognition and realize their experience isn't alone.
And, most importantly, is yourself. In time to come you will see, through very words you pen today, just how far you have come. How each noun, adjective, conjunction, and verb is a stepping stone for everyone. I know I look forward to reading them.
Again, thank you for your thoughtful message and offer of assistance. It was appreciated more than you know.
I remain ever grateful,
Ahavati
P.S. - I found your last post poignant in its ability to draw forth deep emotion.
Thank you for sharing. I trust you understand for now it's best not to use your name in public.
#RainerMariaRilke
Ahavati
Cherokee, North Carolina
Dear D,
I am writing from the heat of a southern mountain day after re-reading T.S. Eliot's 'The Wasteland'. Such a beautiful piece of literature. The 'Four Quartets' is seasonably palatable for the emotion, as well as 'The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock'. Have you noticed weather can affect what you read? I lean toward hearthy poetry as summer closes. The imagery of warm morning fires and smell of food in the air, as though harvest has bloomed - not in the fields but the tables.
I was pleasantly surprised in receiving your message; it was an unexpected delight. Your commentary regarding my example of respectful discourse, as well as quality of poetry was humbling. We never know how others view us unless they take the time to express themselves. I love how poetry binds people of like-mindedness to connect on a more personal level. Particularly in absence.
Absence somehow amplifies the urgency to inform others how we feel. Perhaps we've experienced, to some degree, the painful realization of those we loved departing without knowing. The hollow echo remains throughout our own at not having voiced our feelings. While deeply appreciative of your concern, I assure you I am fine.
I would ask you not to worry about this perceived injustice, though I do understand as humans and artists we are compelled to defend the right of peaceful and respectful expression. Freedom is so paramount to our creative process. Our experience here is so minute compared to the infinite ones we'll choose. It was once said that each lifetime is a grain of sand; we could live 10,000 of them and barely remove a mountaintop.
For me, poetry lives between each space of choice, just waiting to be born. It would seem that way for you as well, in light of reading your work. For others it might be music, painting, and so forth. We, as poets, tend to focus on the beauty of creation, in addition to the emotions of experience, e.g. - love, pain, birth, death, loyalty, betrayal, and, yes, as you mentioned, injustice, to release and understand what we're feeling. To communicate our depths to others and ourselves.
No; I do not advise writing letters of complaint for my situation, or uprising. I do not possess that mindset for two reasons: firstly, I believe I have ordained everything I experience in order to evolve. A decade ago, maybe sooner, before this revelation, I would've resisted. Now, I choose to fully absorb the gamut of whatever arises. I am not referring to crimes such as theft, murder, etc. Or the defense of helpless victims such as children or animals. Those acts should be dealt with accordingly; Secondly, This situation isn't just about me, but others ( even yourself ). We're all a part of this to learn something from it. These types of circumstance push us from complacency and test our resolve truthfully.
Have we recently claimed how we would react during a certain scenario? Have we professed we trust the Universe or God to handle a situation? Have we sworn we would never do a certain thing? Times such as this test us and reveal how strong ( or weak ) our convictions are. Therefore, I would urge you instead to continue focusing on your poetry. Allow the art of words to inspire you and the expression of poetry to communicate not just with others, but those who will follow long after we're gone. Those who will read it as a homing beacon of recognition and realize their experience isn't alone.
And, most importantly, is yourself. In time to come you will see, through very words you pen today, just how far you have come. How each noun, adjective, conjunction, and verb is a stepping stone for everyone. I know I look forward to reading them.
Again, thank you for your thoughtful message and offer of assistance. It was appreciated more than you know.
I remain ever grateful,
Ahavati
P.S. - I found your last post poignant in its ability to draw forth deep emotion.
Thank you for sharing. I trust you understand for now it's best not to use your name in public.
#RainerMariaRilke
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
non-entry.
Anonymous
Related submission no longer exists.
Letters to a Young Poet VII
Sept 8, 2018
Ahavati
Boone, North Carolina
Dear T,
I am answering you from a friend's lovely cabin in the blue ridge mountains this weekend. While summer heat lingers, there's also an undercurrent of autumn; an eddy of cleansing flowing down the mountain as water. The local stands are bright with pumpkin and fresh harvest, canned jams and muscadine wine. Friends are gathering to break bread and celebrate the finale of summer. I adore the camaraderie of mountain people.
I am humbled by your message, and wish to convey my deepest gratitude toward your kind extension of expression on behalf of yourself and others. As an artist ( for I do consider poetry a form of art ) I understand your outrage, and need to speak out; however, I can assure you all is well, and there is no need for retaliation. Though I am positive had I witnessed it happen to another I would undoubtedly feel the same as yourself.
Do not attempt to control situations, but, rather, absorb them so they flow through you. Enjoy experiencing a range of emotions brought forth by various circumstances: light or dark. To attempt to control is to resist; to resist is to submit to fear; to submit to fear is to relinquish Love. Love is called to be bold as a lion yet gentle as a dove. To stand in one's truth takes courage in the face of pride; to suffer injustice is to trust a means to an end will manifest.
To defend the truth is like a tiny ant defending an elephant; it is precious, but unnecessary. Buddha once said that three things cannot long be hidden: the sun, moon, and truth. That is because we all come home to truth, though not with anger or bitterness seeking revenge. Instead, we smile and are grateful for one another's participation in our evolution.
How can there be justice without injustice? Or truth without dishonesty? Contrast is a necessary particle of the whole. This, and this alone, is what we are here to experience. So do not worry about me; release your anger into the atmosphere instead. Celebrate the process of growth as one of acceptance and peace.
For in acceptance lieth peace. So please, no pitchforks or torches. Tell the villagers if they wish to help, then write so we all have something to read and celebrate. This is the way of the true Warrior.
I confess I am deeply moved over your comments regarding my series of letters, and am further humbled you included your own poetry in hopes I would address it as I have the others. I will happily offer my heartfelt advice over your submissions as well as where I feel your future in poetry rests, not as a critique, but as intuitive guidance.
Poetry is a channeled exchange between poet and muse when ego is put aside. The words that set forth an avalanche of honest expression are those that shed a divine revelation within oneself. It's a connection unlike any other.
You have a very gentle nature with words, as though you're sitting within the solitude of yourself observing that around you. Your sensual undertone shows a deep admiration for the feminine aspect of the world: the lovely skin of situations brushing up against your pen expel gratitude above the human arrogance demonstrated by so many writers.
You do not write from a place of ego, but a place of innocent appreciation, as though you're of service to the muse rather than yourself. This is delightfully refreshing and illuminating in the circle of writers we permeate.
Poetry is to be honored in all its ability to move readers to connect emotionally inside themselves first, to recognize a truth and gravitate toward that truth versus pushing it aside. Some who desire to be writers never tap beyond their own ego to honor the sacred within writers.
Look at Bukowski, as brusk as he was, as brutally honest about lifestyle and words, he had a still small voice singing inside him in the form of a Bluebird, reminding him of who he was. And he listened to that voice so he would never forget.
I advise you to find that voice and let it remind you always of why you write. Retain that truth throughout your life, and continue on your current path of gentle respect and appreciation of all things.
This, too, is the true way of the Warrior.
Again, my appreciation for your beautiful sentiment of trust and faith in what I would have to say regarding your poetry. You have taught me a great deal for which I am grateful. But most of all, thank you ( as well as the others ) for caring.
As always, I remain in humble gratitude,
Ahavati
P.S. - I think you will agree it's best under current circumstances not to reveal your name publicly. Perhaps at a later date we will be able to edit and include it. That is the beauty of the digital age.
#RainerMariaRilke
Ahavati
Boone, North Carolina
Dear T,
I am answering you from a friend's lovely cabin in the blue ridge mountains this weekend. While summer heat lingers, there's also an undercurrent of autumn; an eddy of cleansing flowing down the mountain as water. The local stands are bright with pumpkin and fresh harvest, canned jams and muscadine wine. Friends are gathering to break bread and celebrate the finale of summer. I adore the camaraderie of mountain people.
I am humbled by your message, and wish to convey my deepest gratitude toward your kind extension of expression on behalf of yourself and others. As an artist ( for I do consider poetry a form of art ) I understand your outrage, and need to speak out; however, I can assure you all is well, and there is no need for retaliation. Though I am positive had I witnessed it happen to another I would undoubtedly feel the same as yourself.
Do not attempt to control situations, but, rather, absorb them so they flow through you. Enjoy experiencing a range of emotions brought forth by various circumstances: light or dark. To attempt to control is to resist; to resist is to submit to fear; to submit to fear is to relinquish Love. Love is called to be bold as a lion yet gentle as a dove. To stand in one's truth takes courage in the face of pride; to suffer injustice is to trust a means to an end will manifest.
To defend the truth is like a tiny ant defending an elephant; it is precious, but unnecessary. Buddha once said that three things cannot long be hidden: the sun, moon, and truth. That is because we all come home to truth, though not with anger or bitterness seeking revenge. Instead, we smile and are grateful for one another's participation in our evolution.
How can there be justice without injustice? Or truth without dishonesty? Contrast is a necessary particle of the whole. This, and this alone, is what we are here to experience. So do not worry about me; release your anger into the atmosphere instead. Celebrate the process of growth as one of acceptance and peace.
For in acceptance lieth peace. So please, no pitchforks or torches. Tell the villagers if they wish to help, then write so we all have something to read and celebrate. This is the way of the true Warrior.
I confess I am deeply moved over your comments regarding my series of letters, and am further humbled you included your own poetry in hopes I would address it as I have the others. I will happily offer my heartfelt advice over your submissions as well as where I feel your future in poetry rests, not as a critique, but as intuitive guidance.
Poetry is a channeled exchange between poet and muse when ego is put aside. The words that set forth an avalanche of honest expression are those that shed a divine revelation within oneself. It's a connection unlike any other.
You have a very gentle nature with words, as though you're sitting within the solitude of yourself observing that around you. Your sensual undertone shows a deep admiration for the feminine aspect of the world: the lovely skin of situations brushing up against your pen expel gratitude above the human arrogance demonstrated by so many writers.
You do not write from a place of ego, but a place of innocent appreciation, as though you're of service to the muse rather than yourself. This is delightfully refreshing and illuminating in the circle of writers we permeate.
Poetry is to be honored in all its ability to move readers to connect emotionally inside themselves first, to recognize a truth and gravitate toward that truth versus pushing it aside. Some who desire to be writers never tap beyond their own ego to honor the sacred within writers.
Look at Bukowski, as brusk as he was, as brutally honest about lifestyle and words, he had a still small voice singing inside him in the form of a Bluebird, reminding him of who he was. And he listened to that voice so he would never forget.
I advise you to find that voice and let it remind you always of why you write. Retain that truth throughout your life, and continue on your current path of gentle respect and appreciation of all things.
This, too, is the true way of the Warrior.
Again, my appreciation for your beautiful sentiment of trust and faith in what I would have to say regarding your poetry. You have taught me a great deal for which I am grateful. But most of all, thank you ( as well as the others ) for caring.
As always, I remain in humble gratitude,
Ahavati
P.S. - I think you will agree it's best under current circumstances not to reveal your name publicly. Perhaps at a later date we will be able to edit and include it. That is the beauty of the digital age.
#RainerMariaRilke
Written by Ahavati
(Tams)
Go To Page
non-entry
Anonymous
Related submission no longer exists.
