Letters to a Young Poet IX

September 19, 2018
 
Ahavati  
Cherokee, North Carolina  
 
Dear T,  

     Tonight, muscle covers the stars,  
flexing clouds expand condensation into swollen ice crystals;  their semi-warmth cooling summer.  Soon we shall smell roasted leaves and burnt marshmellows from singed twigs.  But, for now it seems a purgatory until the autumn equinox Saturday.  
 
     I've found poetry can also be seasonally cyclic.  The space between departure and arrival can be arid to frozen.  Yet genesis springs from cracked earth just as it survives ice; that is the miracle of life.  
 
     What are these lulls we experience, if not opportunity to grow into bigger houses of existence.  Do we not sleep in a cradle during infancy only.  Do not our play-pens and toddler beds serve us for a brief season. What then of education.  
 
     Are we born to know the alphabet. How long do we grapple with knowledge to comprehend and convey meaning.  How satisfying as quill and ink evolve into poetry from thought and blank spaces of being.  Do you remember the first source of verse swallowed subconsciously, the one that slid sticky as sap into the pail of your heart, pooling as something you'd never before tasted with Spirit before.  
 
     Never had you swallowed something so delectable, so stimulatingly mental as that moment of poetry-enlightened compulsion and desire, obsessive addiction to the fire of words running hot through your veins; you're a poet who saw through a glass darkly, now awake to the brilliance of crystal ink.  
 
   The wilderness is normal, fear not the loss of expression. But, rather, your unbelief that it's all part of your evolutionary blueprint.  For Jesus, the epitome of Love, said himself, do not pray for faith, but belief.  How then can there be faith without belief that it exists?  Therefore, you must believe that what you are in soul will always be: a poet.  
 
     The Muse tests your resolve as a lover.  Your commitment to the craft cannot wither in absence as dust unless you fail to polish its surface.  The inkwell cannot dry unless you cease to refill it. And, the paper will not crumble except you discard it.    
 
     Remember, absence enflames the great and extinquishes the weak.  
 
     But what shall you write of without the muse,  you ask?  I answer, write of what you love.  Why you love. Who you love, especially yourself.  That is the most vital component in truth, loving yourself despite what others think or how they judge.  For honest poetry comes not from pleasing others; it comes not from betrayal to be part of a crowd; it comes not by materialism or covetous want.  It comes from surrender and truth.  
 
     Acquiesce to the process of growth that you may advance in your creative current.  You are pure energy, an extension of all that was, is, and will be. The decision to relinquish forceable prodection merely for the sake of it will be difficult only once, becoming second-nature throughout life. Resistance causes pain and doubt; not the offering of self on the altar of words.  
 
     I wish you much success and happiness on your personal trek, and hold steadfast in belief that you will reach your creative pinnacle regardless of obstacles.  A poet cannot live truthfully if stationery; s/he will become stagnant with longing and grief.  
 
     I look forward to your next letter, whenever that may be.  I am anxious to read the poetry you receive as part of your growth, and rejoice in your commitment to pursue your heart.    
 
     Until such time, I remain anxious to say. . . I told you so! ( though I could never tell you what you already know ).  
 
    Very truly yours,  
 
    Ahavati  
 
P.S. In regards to the persecution you've described, what others think is a reflection of them, not you.  One can only become bitter by looking back.   Trust me on that.  
 
#RainerMariaRilke