Nothing is a spear that pierces the heart,
Nothing is the hollow when you depart.
Nothing is a space devoid of meaning,
Nothing is a crutch on which I’m leaning.
Nothing is life shelled of your smooth skin,
Nothing is a trip that cannot begin.
Nothing is a word that smothers the verb,
Nothing is a cloud that light may disturb.
Nothing is pain but within there is this,
Love is everything that feasts on a kiss.
Scattering their light
So free, I take my tea
And stare for endless minutes,
Time dissolved in this
After vexing thoughts
Plough the mind’s furrow,
Serene it is to absorb
Bright daubings in the sky.
If night’s canvas
Be still, be still -
Fears that kill.
Poetry is a kind
Out of the soul.
Over tea, I jotted down some notes on what poetry means to me. I wouldn’t say that these are meant to constitute some kind of manifesto or should be seen as a commentary to the poem above or other musings on this blog. Poetry is much too dynamic to be reduced to this or that. Poetry, I guess, is whatever you make it out to be.
Notes on Poetry
Poems are windows on the world.
Poems are thoughts given animation.
Poems are the body’s desires enshrined.
Poems are bubbles of buoyancy.
Poems are lifebelts giving protection on the overflowing avenues of life.
Poems are boots helping us up the mountain.
Poems are slides, plumbing the depths of the imagination.
Poems are intoxicating.
Poems are memories.
Poems are eternal.
Poems are of the moment.
Poems dance when the mind is alive.
Poems are for everyone.
Poems don’t grow old.
Poems are sustenance for the soul.
Poems are longings consecrated on the mind’s altar.
Poems are the heart’s yearnings unfurled.
Poetry is music.
Poetry is water.
A daffodil greets me,
sweet, auspicious morning,
golden flower singing
rebirth, leaping from the earth.
Winter’s cloak slips away
in the light of rich promises;
Kindness, love, fresh beginnings
spring on this joyous day.
I tried to tell you
On a hot humid night
Where the beer blazed so bright,
But I couldn’t.
The throbbing desire to kiss
Was killed by modesty
Or good table manners,
I’m not sure which.
Maybe, quivering uncertainty
Douses ardour’s stitching.
So here it is:
A wish expressed in a poem,
As all poems to some extent are.
Filed under Poetry, Thoughts
For those who may be interested, I am delighted to say that my latest collection of musings, Sea of Light, is now available to purchase from the kindle store.
The book contains poems that have leapt from this blog into the book and others that have crept in from the sidelines, more out of curiosity than anything else. If you do take a morsel, may the poetical palate be pleasantly pricked.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never
My birth month -
The glinting grass,
Blades of renewal.
Over the horizon
The sun glimmers,
Softens, flowers open
Accepting what is
And what shall be.