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The poet sits with intention.
Knitted brow and with a scrap of
paper, a sharp implement and a
momentary departure, a faraway gaze,

the poet observes the words taking their own
positions simply as
falling
into place.

The poet lines up the marks and cross-
hatches, rounds up loops and keeps it all
justified, inside the margin(al) notes,
deducing answers by guess and check.

With so many alternates and messy remainders
that carry over into the wrong
problem,
we are easily led astray with too many steps
to count.

The poet prefers no word to another,
making it impossible to say anything
of value about luck or music, or talent,
or art or war or philanthropy or money.

In shorthand scrawls,
the poet draws out
the sharpest tips acquired and
compares this craft to the fine work
such as that of the carpenter or accountant,
or tailor or assassin,
whom measure thrice before a cut is made.

The poet shook his wrist.
The poet knew there were solutions inside
so he sought and tried
to say the one thing that would change
something.
The poet goes with the flow of ink
and arrives quickly
in a foreign tundra
where the virgin snow melts
around slated and craggy ideals.

The poet watches the footfalls
disappear,
grateful to have never been
Here.


Advertising illustration credited by 'Bookseller & Stationer', The Sawn Pen, 1919 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

A Poet's Advice by e.e. cummings

A poet is
somebody who feels,
& who expresses his feelings
                                                -through words.
This may sound easy. It isn't.
A lot of people think
or believe
or know
they feel-
but that is
thinking or believing or knowing;
not feeling.
And poetry is
feeling-
not knowing or believing or thinking.

Almost anybody can learn to think
or believe or know,
but not a single human being can be taught
to feel.

Why?
Because whenever you think
or you believe or you know,
you're a lot of other people:
but the moment you feel,
you're nobody-
but-yourself-
in a world which is doing its best,
night and day,
to make you everybody else-
means to fight the hardest battle,
which any human being can fight;
and never stop fighting.
As for expressing
nobody-but-yourself-
in words,
that means working just a little harder
than anybody
who isn't a poet
can possibly imagine.

Why?
Because nothing is quite as easy as using words
like somebody else.
We
      all of us
                     do exactly this
                                          nearly all of the time-
and whenever
We
      do it,
We
     are not
poets.

If,
at the end of your first ten or fifteen years
of fighting and working and feeling,
you find
you've written
                         one line
                         of one poem,
you'll be very lucky indeed.

And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is:
do something easy,
like learning how to blow up the world-
unless you're not only willing,
                                                 but glad,
to feel and work and fight till you die.

Does this sound dismal?
                                         It isn't.
It's the most wonderful life on earth.
Or so
I feel.


The above text has been reformatted from the original version by e.e. cummings, this passage was included in the introduction (xi-xii) for the book, "A Critical Path" by R. Buckminster Fuller.


Image of painting by Unknown Pandora's Box, via Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain. 

Splashing the Page with White #FFFFFF

“You did it”- may be

the most beautiful three

words to an artist.

He called it “A Triumph-

(of beautifying the vileness

of the stark white pallid page,

perhaps)”-

I have won the battle with me,

'twas said by the Socratic referee.

What was thought could only hide-,

in the dark recesses of the mind, 

now Outside,

of Self,

for all to See,

and breathe on its own a-chord

I hope-

is struck.

See-

Poetry is Pleasure, it’s sensuous he says.

Who else can stop and savor

the moments the infatuated way 

of the artist outside on a clear day-

pushing clouds with eyelids away,

strobes that penetrate the stratosphere,

with noses like bloodhounds,

driven by the scent, like life-

to try and die anyway, coming and going,

something to live for, 

because without it I would die, mused

the sensual Nin, whose romantic endings become

Beginnings, 

all anew.

Like childhood magic is artistic inspiration, 

I made myself believe in fairytales,

and storybook endings.

Old mossy castles surrounded by fog,

turrets of ideas poking through.

Atop blooming mountains where one can go

Dancing to the music at the great

Balls for the Brain;

Libraries, lullabies and lovely lyrics,

how lovely to lose you in the song 

on the page, or public stage.

Art takes nerve, letting some stranger,

whisper sweet unintelligible
nothings

in your ear.

So, an artist tells you what they hear,
or tries-(facing fear)

the best way they know how.

Spilling ink, blood, tears, sand, oil, sweat, 

love, pain, hope, desire, fear and regret,

Yet-

most people prefer the color of 

Perception or commonly called white

(allowing for muted undertones).

White is a color, the perception of which is evoked by light that stimulates all three types of color sensitive cone cells in the human eye in equal amounts and with high brightness compared to the surroundings. A white visual stimulation will be void of hue and grayness. White is the lightest possible color.Defined as: #FFFFFF

Image By Mlaoxve [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Oil painting palette.

Using Bold

Using Bold

To grab the words from thin air

Hold them and put them there

to step out and permanently say

it is such and such a way

to jump deep inside

instead of hide

and face the face of one's mortality

infallibly

Food for thought is not always tasty

but our reactions still often too hasty

To be a writer it is brave

to the consensus you are a slave

and good writing is never easy

in fact some have made me queasy

But writing is still where I find

truly a piece of mind

Like a dentist I plaster and polish

wrestle and wrangle pull and push

to get a perfect smile

it takes a while

More than ideas are in my head

although I've been told the Art of Poetry is dead

I still see poems everywhere, through teeth in combs

and propped on chairs, words tangled in hairs

So I take to poems to let them out

rarely stopping to edit or doubt

Does this word even go?

Only the poet should know...

often I get it all wrong

out of tune, like this song.

Form and convention is sometimes a bore

All the devices and metaphor

This must follow that, trying to do the math-

what was the order? I'm off the beaten path

I think I used improper composition

or was it my terrible diction?

Either way before you go 

there's something secret you should know

A poet never wrote for fame

for the muse, it's just the way the words came. 

Image By Okeyes (WMF) (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

   

Suffering in Silence

By Antonio da Fabriano II (Italian, active 1451-1489) (Walters Art Museum:  Home page  Info about artwork) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Shhh! I'm straining to hear

(I must admit, to you

this is my greatest fear)

thundering, rolling silence

boulders unwedged

cracking from a dry spell

not able to find the words to tell

nor a drop in the hollow inkwell

a writers ramblings

that chokingly clutter

floods of thoughts, ideas,

those clever lines I mutter

all taken for granted!

Perhaps there's just nothing

more needing to be said,

(it never before

felt like such a chore)

It used to come

like a heartbeats drum

Absent, broken, chaotic ideas

now dam

and make me look dumb!

A river of words flows by,

a waterfall of passion spills out,

taken by the current inspiration

that usually carries me

Dry and jammed

lodged with self-immolated Styx,

a busy beavers idle work,

where idleness eddies may lurk

I am told not to worry

it will be back and come in torrent

Can you hear the watery voice?

Comprehend its murky messages?

Now, I should confess

I am responsible for this lazy mess

(it's not as though I haven't tried

"I wrote a little today," I lied.)

Instead sterile white paper mirroring thoughts

Letters, symbols, pixels,

words that don’t go anywhere

stuck in virtuous silence

waiting for the stream to come...

Composed 8/22/14.