poetic letdown
it’s easier to write your own poetry than it is to read others’ poetry. and yet, where are my poems?
the first line there — is that a true claim? I’ll leave it to the indignant reader to dispute the claim, or to the head-nodder to ponder why.
the second line — they’re nowhere and here, in the very act of me click-clacking away on the blank canvas of this page, for the first time in a while. I’m back now, but who knows when I’ll be back next.
there’s not a specific aim, other than to force open the gate of “reflections” for 5 minutes — just 5! more than that would be too much to ask of my indolence.
it’s just, thoughts are often incoherent phrases, feelings are even more nebulous and intangible, and sense and self-essence are barely-shapen conceptual clouds hovering over the layman’s spiritual dimension 10,000 feet above where eyes can ever reach. it takes too much energy for the entitled mortal to communicate with those inklings in the clouds. too much time to set aside the screen when already slouched against couch cushions forgetting to drink water and willfully ignoring the most mundane of tasks.
let’s be lenient with the definition of poetry and say i really did open that gate just now and the words of a p o e m have tip-toed out and then crashed head first on this stage, and now they’re scrambling to vanish once more behind the curtains and shut down the lights.
that first line — if you made it this far, perhaps you’re in the first boat of indignation, because my words have managed to pull (or drag) your attention long enough. if you didn’t make it this far, then you didn’t. and we’re like-minded.
that second line.
i
d
k
and i d c to spend much more time here entertaining these thoughts, it’s been over 5 minutes.
9 June 2024
