Do we live to write or do we write to live?
Is truth a configuration of a subjective perspective?
How much of truth do we owe to the craft and to the audience?
Does it really matter?
That’s how the conundrum starts for writers.
These question we rarely ask of ourselves when we feel that unexplainable tow and tug pulling away from everything and anything around us burrowing in the vertigo of solitude, faithful to that single surge of emotion rising from the depths of the soul flourishing through each and every sense, trajectory of flight in animated syllables.
We write to find truth in our perspective and validation of our existence, recording memories on a spiritual journey beyond the limitations of flesh and bone. Some words fall haphazardly naturally, fitting softly like pieces of puzzle making love in perfect harmony while others slam against one another like lustful sex hurriedly like in back alley; the memory of scent lingering for days: unsatisfied, unfulfilled incomplete.
Passion seems to be the dominant force in all artistic forms: music, writing, painting any and all creations as extension of expression where language in its simplest form fails to communicate.
We create the poem like a photographer’s lens placing between ourselves and the scene, factual or fiction or perhaps a mutation of both, part imagination part real. The tighter we focus the ring with edits, the clearer the images present themselves defining shadows, heightening colors with depth and epiphany, smelling the decay in the attic while watching a field of wildflowers in bloom through a wormhole of the mind connecting pathways past, present and beyond.
Is it nature or nurture? Are we born poets or is it an acquired skill either by imitation or teachings. If so, do we carry any responsibility in the development and shaping of the world; the vast canvas of new-age internet forums and groups easily accessible, shared and displayed.
We are the ever storytellers of persuasion with empathy, connecting with the audience with humility in fragments observed in pieces of poetry but with each freedom of expression there’s the freedom of disconnect. In the end, the greatest reward of fulfillment comes from doing what you love when there’s nothing else that can be done.
One of the prevalent occupational hazards that poets are rarely immune from; falling in love with the words of another poet, hence; with the poet subsequently.
We fall in love with the imagery, the dream, the vision, the bare heart bleeding on the bruised sky, falling in love again and again recreating in the mind a hyperbole reverie. But, very few unions are a success in reality, life imitating art or perhaps art is an imitation of life itself.
Who wears the mask begs the question; the poet burrowed in cloak of metaphors or the man holding the pen … obliged by society, obligations, judgements and expectations vulnerable of fears, desires and truth living a life moulded with traditions.
It’s never easy to write, some battle writer’s block and some carry the stone like Sisyphus returning to the cold blank page knowing it all starts with whit and the wait, gathering the storm drop by drop to sprout the seed in the womb. Some taking years and others a blink of an eye, exploding.
We are all “poets’ living full lives, complete-ly functional and at the same time, dysfunctional encountering experiences and growth. Combining awareness of senses, acute observation with trust in thrusted words of measured amounts, perceiving the balance of enough and too much shapes the vital essentials in a well constructed poem.
We expect poetry to bare the truth but some of the best poems written blur the lines of truth and lie, leaving much to the imagination.
to not forget
the colors of love
in bloom and in bruise
the warmth of borrowed
skin upon skin
grinding like old stones
carved silhouettes of
slithering in slow
crescendo of chaos
the taste of
salty sweet briny tears
in dusk of loneliness
at edge of brink
twirling cobweb’d hair
in the wind
under molasses sky
The devil is always in the details.