Writ in Water.

It seems that only those included in the number of human beings that are afflicted by “The Word”, that are also stained by the attached process. A love for words begins early in Life for those of us who harbor one; mine did, at least.

I recall noting many “adult” words that I overheard in “adult” conversations during my childhood; words such as: proverbial (I still over-use it, by default), harlequin (A word that I loved so much as a child, I chose it as a name for my first dog), hankering (a word that has a definition just as awesome as it is), overlord (a word that remains as fun to say today as it did when I was three), and most memorably: Tachyon (a word that I notoriously misused throughout my childhood because I simply loved to say and spell it). I was notorious for making statements that were made up of various idioms and adages I had heard my older male family members (my Papa, Dad, or any of my 5 older brothers) use. I am teased to this day over things I said in all earnestness, as a young girl trying to be super serious and to be taken seriously.

SOME EXAMPLES:

“Don’t put all of your eggs in a gift horse’s mouth before they hatch”

“Never kick a gift-horse you led to water in the mouth when he’s down”

“Give a man a fish, shame on you; teach him to fish, shame on me

 “Kicking the bowl”, instead of the bucket

 

I knew my ABC’s way too early as well; I can partially remember the day that I was in my Dad’s lap at the kitchen table and we were coloring together (so I must have been super young because I became “too old” to sit in his lap by the time I was 3.5 years, according to my Papa) and my Dad surprised me by asking me if I knew the alphabet yet. He was trying to mess with me, being certain that I didn’t – and that he would be able to give me shit for not knowing an answer – he was good like that. I can guarantee that he was the more shocked of the two of us when I belted out the entire song correctly without missing a beat; being the oldest of his own siblings, my Dad often overlooked the power that having a clan of older brothers gave me in such instances. I was (and still am) like a dried out sponge just waiting to absorb any information made available to me in any given context.

It was like I saw words as people spoke them, like a cartoon bubble over everyone’s heads, all the time. I was a naturally excellent speller as a child, something I have lost touch with in the time in between; I just LOVED words – there’s no other way to describe it. There is only one “wordsmith” in my immediate family, and it had been my Papa, who doubled as my daycare provider during my pre-school era. This became one of the most enriching and enlightening parts of my youth when it comes to words and my love for them; we often played word games together that loosely ran all day long and into dinner-time. My Papa gifted me very, very generously with his mind, heart and brain, indeed. In grade school, I was able to win over the others in my class every time through the shaping and molding of the words I chose to use on them; I took sweeping victories in my campaigns for the Student Union or Student Council positions I went after, because of the speeches I had written and the way I worded them. I was a peacemaker at home and on the playground – and my love of vocabulary never let me down in that context either. On the flip side, it has been the same love of words and literary expression that has wounded me deeply many times in Life, too, however. I am sensitive to the weight that words carry in an almost exquisite way; something that is tried and true: impossible to explain to a non-word-lover. When the weight of a word has been passed along to me, I have carried it no matter how heavy it may have been.

Most, if not all, people not afflicted by “The Word” have no appreciation for the burden attached to being a carrier of its weight, and behave accordingly. I have realized in the more recent years of my life: just how much I am affected by literature and the artistic use of words, as I find myself feeling the most emotions available to me during times that I have absorbed written content. There is just so much simplicity alongside of such intricacy in words and the beautiful combinations they can concisely make up. John Keats, my all-time favorite romance  poet, who was so perfected in his wordsmithing skills that he often made women cry and men shrink, left on his headstone, the most eloquent description of it all:

“Here lies one whose name was writ in water.”

You dig?

 

Honnør.

An assault rifled salute to past days of bright rays…
to the ice-cream truck and sweetened pink lemonade…
to the clouds spooned into the skies like mayonnaise…

to the people we’d naively hoped to grow into someday;
– Honnør.

A headstone held up by string and a busted spade…
from a ceremony held back in the good ol’ days…
when a priestess poured blessings inside the grave…

to the bridges we’ve buried here over the years, along the way;
– Honnør.

 

A wooden box that our four hands built from trees…
the treasures placed inside by both you and by me…
it was the fate of that box that haunts me now, you see?…

the darkness we anchored to it by burying it so deeply;
– Honnør.

 

A marksman’s dot on both of our foreheads again…
one must offer the other a last shot at another salvation…
but in spite of everything, there’s not a second’s hesitation…

the thought of “better me it be than my spirit’s dearest friend”;
– Honnør.

Sewn Into Skin.

Before you,
there was him;
And before him,
had been them,
a handful of men,
not one forgotten;
Yet, I recall little,
of any of them;
How to begin?
It’s intuition,
something within,
a hidden system,
obsolete and broken.
Little details win,
words said then,
I recall them,
unforgotten,
unforgiven,
sewn into skin.

The Self.

ts eliot

“In this poor body, composed of one hundred bones and nine openings, is something called spirit; a flimsy curtain swept this way and that by the slightest breeze. It is spirit, such as it is, which led me to poetry, at first little more than a pastime, then the full business of my life. There have been times when my spirit, so dejected, almost gave up the quest, other times when it was proud, triumphant. So it has been from the very start, never finding peace with itself, always doubting the worth of what it makes.”

~ Basho

This is a post with a certain someone in mind and at heart; but Basho pretty much sums up the lifelong inner-boxing match endured by all poets and writers…as a matter of fact, it describes anybody’s struggle with SELF.

Off-Stage.

How is that we…
are on again suddenly?
Because you’ve heard,
the word…
on the fucking street,
all about my baby,
of all things –
the only thing –
worth anything to me…
I find it infuriating,
that you found the time,
to slither your way,
into my fucked up day,
and presume to take,
any despair of mine…
before my now-grown,
daughter was gone,
you never cared to know,
what was going on;
and now,
that shit’s hit the fan,
you sad excuse,
for a man,
or as a “friend”,
don’t come here,
don’t pretend,
to see the situation,
and POOF!…
you suddenly care,
about what’s false,
or what might be true ,
and the traumas,
she’s running from –
and right back into,
get the fuck away,
from my overwhelming,
world of pain,
you’d never make it,
through a single day…
the shallows seep,
to water the deep,
and keep any,
reality at bay;
don’t talk to me today,
when you have,
nothing real to say,
no questions or inquiries,
of my daughter’s state…
no acting,
no faking,
get your ass off the stage.

Ode to a Spaniard.

Across the sea
a ways from me
lives a wondrous
writer of poetry;
a Spaniard – my Charly:
his prose are like dreams,
the way that he
whittles down words,
he knows how to love me;
An Ode to a Spaniard –
a blue eyed, fair-skinned King
writes words I believe
alongside of me,
in a flow that goes freely,
the click of typing keys,
Ode to a kindred,
spirit belonging to me,
my favorite bull-chaser –
My Crazy Lifed Charly.

Honnør.

An assault rifled salute to past days of bright rays…
to the ice-cream truck and sweetened pink lemonade…
to the clouds spooned into the skies like mayonnaise…

to the people we’d naively hoped to grow into someday;
– honnør.

A headstone held up by string and a busted spade…
from a ceremony held back in the good ol’ days…
when a priestess poured blessings inside the grave…

to the pieces we’ve buried here over the years, along the way;
– honnør.

A wooden box that our four hands built from trees…
the treasures placed inside by both you and by me…
it was what happened to that box that haunts me now, you see…

the depths and darkness we anchored to it by burying it so selfishly;
– honnør.

A marksman’s dot on our foreheads again…
one of us must offer the other a last shot at salvation…
whatever it may turn out to be, there’s never any hesitation…

long-ago accepted by us both: a thought of “better me than my dearest friend”;
– honnør.

Fatmouth.

If a shooting star spent all of eternity
in being stricken across the night skies…
ever steady, blazing through the E-40
a distance, never closing –
between two massive, lying eyes…
the bell’s constant tolling –
a sound patterned to symbolize…
one of the fighters is face-down –
lights out, three – two – one
stars still twinkling,
sun still sinking –
along with the well-honed
bare-boned,
dramatic fireworks show,
I belatedly recognize…
the shooting star
fired from the smoking barrel
of Misery’s own Sig Sauer .45 –
no room to wiggle
no time to grow in size.

A Collective of Poetic Beasts.

10-8-12iStock_000018978522XSmall

There are a few dudes over there, too. 😉

The Collective is up and running; (minus my sniper on the roof, but I’m hoping you pull your head out and come over there soon enough, Charly)

If any of my readers are so inclined to come over and support the support system, feel free to – we welcome you!

Kindred Words Collective

“The poetry of the earth is never dead.” – John Keats.


sniper

“The Public – a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.”

“What the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth.”

“There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify – so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.”

“Though a quarrel in the streets is a thing to be hated, the energies displayed in it are fine; the commonest man shows a grace in his quarrel.”

It never fails to amaze me, when I read Keats (a young man who died an agonizing death in an unfamiliar and foreign land) and am totally able to relate to his sentiments…

A Poetic Wiseman Once Said:

John Keats (1795-1821) is the reason why I fell in love with poetry as a very, very young child.

He is hands down – my ALL-TIME favorite Romance Era Poet, and likely my my ALL-TIME favorite poet; I have included a taste of his genius to help anyone who isn’t familiar with his work become enlightened a little by its beauty and perfection. ENJOY!


“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.”


“I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination.”


“I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.”


“Life is but a day:
A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way
From a tree’s summit”


“I want a brighter word than bright”


“Here lies one whose name was writ on water.”


“I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.”


“Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget…”


“If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.”


“And when thou art weary I’ll find thee a bed,
Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.”


“Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,
– Drown’d all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead.
Awake! arise! my love and fearless be,
For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee.”