Monday, August 22, 2005

Never effable. But isn't that the point of this?

If wishes were horses, then I would definitely have a whole stable full.

Some where over… one day over the… if I ever have a chapbook published it will be entitled “Lessons”.

This should give me something to sing about. Multiple metaphors, vault the meaning home. Dribble and dank. All of this little bits that are stirring and steeping, how I wish they all were tied together somehow. I am in the center watching them pop and rage, and I am stockpiling them. I have a desktop filled with bits and pieces of what will be something soon one day. I have these fragments that I think are pretty good or will be, potential in all things I insist, and I have been carving them like a crazed aproned housewife at thanksgiving and the carving isn’t resulting in anything other than more pieces.

The more poetry I read, the more the parts fall away. I don’t know what this means. I am having trouble distinguishing. Well maybe not, but so much of what I read now doesn’t suit me or fill me, my ante has been upped and I don’t know what to do with it now.

I have been thinking about expectations recently too. I think this is tied in with the bits. My expectations have changed for what I read, so consequently they have changed about what I write. I referred to this before as the road only getting longer, it is, but when you can’t see the end, or some days even the sides, and you can only see your footsteps in the path, it is frightening. Talk about isolation. I feel like I am grasping, always the poem I see just out of reach. And I have long arms too. The sensation of it is never effable, haha, and always exhausting.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge got it right with:

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

He knew this because he had written a poem. I am certain now this poem is about writing poetry. Beware.

Thanks for reading.

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