poets do neither report nor / walk around enrapt in transport but / ’tis when in writing their worlds are wrought
by m lewis redford
poets do neither report nor
walk around enrapt in transport but
’tis when in writing their worlds are wrought
it was not
a rapturous contemplation
with the elm by the cemetery near her home
it was not a conversation
eyes held by branch and lean
it was just a glance awhile
and turn it was round-cheek smile and on to something else
but later
lingered through dark gap of tooth –
colossal now –
it was in
th
ev
er
yw
ri
ti
ng
that the tree rooted in the ground below
to find the fibrous voices
part of >>> writing and being
Sylvia Plath wormhole: Sylvia
Really enjoyed this, esp the cascade at the end
th
an
ky
ou
fo
rt
he
co
mp
any
The cascade bumped me back and forth knocked me on the rocks and scrapped my elbow.
The roots though, we went down together like moles. Now I live there too.
have you seen Sylvia down there at all …?
Intuition flows on love. I see what I”m looking for. Her, I don’t find her in soft soil, she is in tear splashed ink sweated, and breathed into the bloodstream.
roots? soil? ink? blood? … I think we’ve struck a motherlode here
It’s all down here
We mine it, pump it, live it
It grows up yellow flowers, and red things to eat
Where no hell ever is deep
It’s al in here
… and it never runs out!
Never! Always satisfying and delicious, sometimes stirred.
sometimes lava if you go too deep
What a story that would be!
more like: aaaggghhhhh!!!
Hey,
Read this poem of yours and remember….that feeling…even if you don’t feel like writing again today. You will tomorrow or soon.
I’m just glad I don’t have to miss you when I don’t find you in my reader.
ah yes, well-linked