driven to distraction
Spring Feverbecause we are driven from the cities
into the wild
because the earth is only big enough for land and sky
because myths are what we seek, buried in the red dust of the west
into the wild
because home life isn't satisfying
because we are sick of mattering
because the scree and hiss of nature
is like the touch of the adders in cleopatra's bed
because we have redefined ourselves by an incomplete equation
the mind can only stretch as far as another has gone
and we can snap
or we can soak the leather of our souls
in the streams
in the breeze
on a precipice, a peak
tumbling with the air around us, diving into the water
emerging a child
the skin of womanhood is lost
the scabs of society flake away
because we have run,
and we do not know how far we could go
and also because
nature is not delicate with us
we will not be told anything by her
we will be acted upon
but never judged
"judged by nature" is a ridiculous statement
the cleansing rake of the blades of grass under me tie me to the ground
summers day in march
----
--
Through the clamor rise voices, and
some of them cry louder for war,
Underneath lies the current
the whisper
the introspection of the poet, of the artist
we are here
to smooth the doubts
to rest the weary
to bring a candle
for the night.
--
"I am telling you, if this Bella thing doesn’t work out, Seth is going to be there to comfort Edward. If you know what I mean. And I think you do.)" Cleolinda Jones
Halo, thar.
--
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things :
Of shoes - and ships - sealing wax -
Of cabbages - and kings -
And why the sea is boiling hot -
And whether pigs have wings"
Does anyone else live in the perpetual fear of judgement?
It's the ultimate downer, sitting in front of the computer with the word processor open (modern day style, although I prefer old school...typewriter would be nice. Maybe a stone tablet if I'm feeling up to it.)
and remembering all the god-awful things people might say about your work, but then you stop to think
: it's not important enough to even BE criticized
and then we all just go home and cry in our respective corners, don't we!
So I suppose we write for the invisible reader, the one we know understands us, or even better, feels like we understand them. The joy I get out of reading the intimate mental rebellions someone else has published is sometimes what I look forward to in my day.
Sad, perhaps, but even those of us who are fulfilled seem to revisit the beautiful ideas we produce in our photosynthetic way to supply ourselves with the energy to continue while we watch those around us form bonds, break bonds, get trampled by life, or be swept out into the maelstrom of love, alternately calling out for help and shouting in glee.
We live to listen to each other, in the moments that we recognize our own emptiness, but sometimes I feel like I just have to write something, like Castaway on his island, I'm writing S O S in the sand, just in more letters.
The tide comes in.
--
Wes thu hal.
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