This poem alone, without commentary, is also published on the Poems blog.
There’s a magic communal experience that occurs when a writer can penetrate a reader’s mind (and the latter allows it to be penetrated) and share the same feeling that gave birth to the words. You and I, my dear from our very different spheres can meet here in these few little lines, and grasp the same treasure together.
The following words are about the writing process (excuse the term) and how it merges closely with that of the listening reader. What’s your experience of the creative (art, writing, acting, dancing) process? Please comment below.
When it it wanted to be remembered it came in streams and fell in lines that swirled around us so we could pluck one word and chew on it, put it back and taste another. Follow one some way, skip between others and dance in syncopated, flip-flop rhythm between feeling thoughts and sinking feelings.
We could – just by looking – delight ourselves for days or more. Pick princely gems or suffer wounds because they only help us grow. You and I, my dear, winging in thrones and cased in rafters, tumbled in spider-webs and then clean again. Washed of reason and sense of being.
Tumbled in rapture and cast in spells; we allowed the words to come; syllable by fleeting syllable:
Represses facet that is not felt or said
But is expressed as release
Two poles of a sphere come together
Itself to disappear
This is the learning and the learned
The fighting and the sky
The love in a terrible beauty
The asking to be free
Pure. Free of meaning. Captive and liberated.
~ o ~
How futile is life?