Dancing out to sea

April is National Poetry Month. I love, love the idea as poetry is my writing of choice.

So, this morning my thoughts turned to why I write. Good question? Tough to answer I suppose. Certainly multi-dimensional for me. I communicate in print being an introvert. Posting and publishing is my move towards letting myself be seen. Seeking friendship. Would love to hear your reason.

I am reading Sylvia Plath’s Journals. The entries express something universal for writer’s who struggle with publishing. Comparable to falling in love, bearing a tender soul, subjecting your essence to possible damage but also kindness and appeal. In silence writer’s read each others journey. It is risky to know a poet who dangles in the dark. Sylvia’s words are poignant memories, raw as if yesterday, others appearing in real time. Perhaps those voices speaking do not really exist. I tend to get lost in that world and soon feel like Alice. In wonderland. chasing the White Rabbit. “I’m late, I’m late for a very important date.” Perhaps not.

I realize so much of what I throw to the wind is incomplete. I put my poems out there, as raw as they are, my thoughts not able to be still. I cannot fence them. They pray for freedom, seeking refinement in open space, sailing away from me. Juvenile poems comparatively with polished poets.

Incomplete poems return
asking for pardon
failing to accomplish my hopes, they wish to be forgotten.
Certainly need tailoring;
a dress you can not walk in, the hem dragging you down.
I wearing “The Red Shoes”.

The words needed step up
bow and take their place.
I cannot expect
everyone will be moved.
The purpose is not popularity but to show my heart.
My heart truly is the star.

As a writer, I am forging ahead, towards being the best I can be given my circumstances. I am clay and God is my potter. I am a believer in God. I am a believer in Jesus. I am not asking you to embrace my beliefs but rather witness what the relationship does for me. I admit it is my lifeline. I wouldn’t know how to keep on living if it wasn’t for these chances to make a life that is lived, worthy of being a part of this great big universe that never seems to end.

There will be an end for me.

Art dance Memoir Poetry

3 Comments Leave a comment

  1. I love Sylvia Plath. I read her letters and for me The Bell Jar is one of the best books ever written. She’s a great poet and writer. I also read Ted Hughes’ poetry. He was very much in love with her. It’s also good to know her from his perspective. I stopped hating him. 🙂

    • I want to say something smart to your post but at the moment I cannot find the book since I carry it with me everywhere and then forget where I last read it. 🙁 But I hope I get to the point where Ted is not to blame…

      • She doesn’t directly blame him, but she writes about her anguish. She had many personality issues, lacked self-confidence despite her talent and intelligence. Her mother compiled the letters, and if I remember correctly there’s an acknowledgement for Ted Hughes. Sadly, their son also committed suicide. 🙁

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