SWEET MYSTERY
Where does love come from?
Are you inspired by a face,
A line curved or straight,
The sound of a laugh,
Or a sob,
The color of eyes?
What is the source of heat?
Is it the friction of skin,
The brush of a lip or finger,
Or a touch,
In a secret place?
What happens when souls meet?
Do they reach beyond space and time
In a spiral of yin and yang,
Chasing destiny,
The filling of voids?
What does your love mean to me?
Am I eased by your presence,
warmed by your smile,
Completed only
When our souls touch?
.
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1 comment:
Touching, Jzb!
Poet I am not, but at times I read some poe-try. Kelley, Sheets, etc. Then, Ezra Pound said one couldn't really be a poet in the American language, anyway---tant pis. Or words to that effect. St. EP (from Literary essays) also asserted that the young Bard-to be should know latin, a romance tongue or three (ie frenchy, italiano, etc), even some dutch, and perhaps some chinese or sanskrit, plus history, metaphysics, and smattering of the sciences. Then set to work!
Good poetry's like good musick. It takes a great deal of skill. Most anyone can hammer out a sunday school hymn or Dylanesque lament on a piano or g-tar after a few months. Playing flawless Scriabin, Chopin--or even Bill Evans--is another matter.
It's similar, I believe for profound poesy. About any Bubba might belch out his narcissism du jour, or some Toby Keith march of the week. Producing Shelley's Prometheus Unbound on the other hand or Wordsworth's Prelude,, or Joyce's Ulysses requires a great deal of work, and scholarship, AND talent--one reason most poets, like composers tended to come from aristocratic families. Us workin' stiffs just don't have the pedigree, and the years of latin and greek.
Another reason I prefer say Dash Hammett's hard-boiled writing, or even Hemingway to most poeticizing ala TS Eliot.
(Speaking of Bubba and po-try, check out this gorilla's noise (one Bubba Bellamy from Sacto-town. Schwarzenegger sings dyslexic songs of wuv, girly mann. No meter, no verse, no form,no tradition, no theme, except himself. Voonderbar).
Quoth the Raven,
like, ever-more
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