Love Poetic

"Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me here. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes?"

—Taken from Persuasion, by Jane Austen; Captain Wentworth's letter to Anne

This is what makes the classics, classic. No one writes or speaks like this anymore, and while some might be relieved to find this so, I find it to be a little less beautiful, a little less poetic.

The Writer's Notebook

Anyone who writes is probably familiar with the writer's notebook, but to those who aren't writers, watching someone scribble in a notebook every five minutes, stopping midstream to jot down thoughts, ideas, prose, even story lines or dialogue, can seem just a bit obsessive.

But writers tend to be obsessive anyhow. I friend of mine, who also happens to be a therapist, and not mine, once told me that writers live in their own little worlds, ones they create deep within, while the rest of us live among the living. 

And if that's true, remembering everything we come up with would be impossible. That's why we write it down, no matter how random it may seem at the time.

The point is this, as all creatives know: when you receive this often elusive creative spark, when the muse graces upon you inspiration, you don't throw it away. You stop what you're doing and grab hold of it. Otherwise, the moment is gone, lost in time, leaving you with nothing to show for it.

Life as the Artist's Canvass

Artists are the most intriguing of all people. They have this innate ability to look at things with honest eyes and create what they see: with paint, clay, marble, pencils, words. They can take a view of the world that many of us have and turn it into a world view that we crave.

I adore the way an artist can look into the very soul and see all of its colors, its layers of light, of lies and truths and everything that lies in the in-between. 

Paint for me a Monet sky...

Another Day, Another Poem Sold

Poetry for profit may be looked down upon by the literati, but it does serve its purpose when it resonates with the masses. So I don't mind when poetry snobs turn up their noses to what I call "Americana poetry." After all, poetry is only good if the reader is able to understand it, and let's face it, most of us find it almost impossible to understand what some call poetry. That's why we neither read or study it.

Of course, there is a lot of bad "poetry" out there; a lot that simply can't be read. No one who writes Americana poetry wants to be lumped into that category. I certainly hope I never am; when that day comes, I promise to stop penning any of it for public consumption. I may still do so privately just to torture myself.

Which brings me to my point. I just received another contract today from Blue Mountain Arts for my latest poem for them, which is much less like poetry than it is prose. It truly is exciting to go to the mailbox and discover a large yellow envelope with their label on it. They don't send rejection letters out because they receive nearly 1,000 poems a month. Therefore, you know when you receive an envelope from them, you will be getting good news.

And that's always good.

 

Fade into You

Sorry I haven't posted anything for so very long. Work has kept me busy, and then there's life, which can get in the way of everything. Anyhow...

Here's the latest poem I am working on. Another work-in-progress, but isn't it better to create than to destroy or do nothing at all?

Untitled

The world could just disappear,

As long as I have you here

Nothing else matters...

Anymore

Hold your hand out for mine,

Fade into you as we entwine,

And nothing else matters

It could all just burn away

Nothing else matters, anymore

When you come near

I can't breathe, so unaware

The world could just fade away

Because nothing else matters

Burn away, simply fade

Nothing else matters

When you're near