Posted in Art, dance, Memoir, Poetry

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.

Posted in Art, Memoir, Opinion, Poetry

Anyone listening?

Authoritative judgement.
She is going for the kill
him and herself
for betrayal and unerrorable
cries, innocence clinging
to madness.

(Me, 3/28/2016)

Consider the following Sylvia Plath quotes. None of these lines are in chronological order.

“Is there no way out of the mind?”

“I talk to God but the sky is empty.”

“I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.”

Her words, ruminating choruses of distraction, hopelessness and hysterical madness. She was not always in such foul moods. Fantastical moments of joy, found in nature, lifted her to heights discovered, absent of anything but quietness.

“I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery—air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, ‘This is what it is to be happy.’”

“I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
to lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free.”

It is existing in either land that dangerously walks a snarling tightrope that snaps.

We must recognize extreme black and white phases of thought, desiring to find safety, grasping onto extremes.

How can we learn to see life neither all good nor all bad? Why is it impossible for some to blend stark opposites to create a balanced life of bitter and sweet?

“I didn’t want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didn’t know why I was going to cry, but I knew that if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I’d cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full.”

A definition of depression. I have been there. Below a poem drawing from memory, reflecting a deep despair, holed up inside myself, deep in the belly of darkness.

I am not sick as attested to before
digging up incredulous error.

I cannot wake.
I do not wish for death
death prays for me.

(Me, 3/28/2016)

Some writers find infatuation with feelings. When we are high, there is an exhilaration incomparable. We can fly! When we are low, we cannot crawl. Emotions become muses. They express human existence otherwise glossed over by the day-to-day grind.

In a moment mistakes are made and in hours wiser choices can be noticed.

*I recognize unerrorable is not a word, but it works so well and it can be defined found free of shame and guiltless.