Posts Tagged ‘poet’

Somewhere among the dueling concrete

and greenery;

somewhere among the orchards

and the painted dollhouses of suburbia;

somewhere in the obnoxious cries of the gull,

the wail of the baby, the shoots of light

that grow out of the sun;

somewhere in the deep

blue-black forest of scrawls by the poet,

there is

hope.

“The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”- Sylvia Plath

from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

It’s funny how childlike and innocent my perception of the world, or at least the Natural world, becomes at the beginning of each season.

At the start of winter this year the snow was falling so lightly I thought it was almost dreamlike. Then winter got old. People began to grow tired of the now, especially as the weather turned foul. I tried to maintain a positive outlook, trying to see the beauty in storms and the whiteness of everything. But the sad thing about winter, when you get older, is that the season kind of loses it’s magic. You find you’d rather stay inside. I tried going out into the snow once. I only ended up being outside for fifteen minutes. Maybe the magic is also gone because fifteen minutes can feel like forever when you’re a kid.

Now winter grows into spring, and I find myself smiling as I step into a puddle by accident. I feel happy being able to see green plants now- tree branches no longer covered by snow. But I’m wondering how long this fascination will last. As a writer, observation of the surrounding world is important, but there’s this nagging sense that what I observe will get tiresome eventually.

I guess that the best option is to try and keep an open mind. To observe the changes that happen, and try to find the beauty in the heat waves and thunderstorms to come.

Wish me luck, and stay tuned!

“I may not be a whole person, but that isn’t going to prevent me from trying to be a good one.”- Original

You may be broken. That’s fine. Use that as momentum. Be the best that you can be.

“Words and eggs must be handled with care./Once broken they are impossible/things to repair.” ~Anne Sexton, from her poem “Words” in “The Awful Rowing Toward God”

Life, friends, is boring

only to those who make it so.

To complain of a friend’s plights

and gripes, and then complain

of being bored

marks a hypocrite

who has lost his inner child

who would see the great sea flash

and the blue sky and its cottons yearn

and dream

not of fantasy worlds,

but of the wonders here,

in his life.

-In response to Dream Song 14 by John Berryman

Who am I

but a vague mouth

preaching and conversing

to millions of unseen faces

who cannot see the teeth or tongue,

who can only imagine 

the redness,

the whiteness.