I’m currently inspired enough to be writing a kinda screed - tentatively titled “Poet Confidential”. A half-memoir, a half-whateveriwantittobe book with the only thread holding it together being an expose of what it is, truly is, to be a poet.
One thing a poet needs to deal with is staying alive. I don’t mean the pounding of the heart and the intake of oxygen. No. I mean being alive to the world around him/her, I call it, “livin’ it”. A poet is addicted to this, to this process of meaning making.
And it is bloody hard to stay alive, to “be there”, in the moment. But one of the ways a poet does this, is through observation and immersion in the world that goes by them. Taking in the sights, sounds, impressions and making some kind of stream, some kind of sense from them.
Today, put together a series of images from the day, that flowed through me. A pastiche. What the surrealists would have called, “found art” or a found poem. Call it my food, nourishment for my soul. A poem, ultimately proof that I’m here AND livin’ it.
This Life
A mother eagle with her dead babies.
The cries of yesterday drowning in the rain barrel.
Ice cream left melting on the floor.
A clown with no makeup.
Wind against a wall.
A lonely walk that won’t end.
Halfway. Incomplete.
Something. Everything.
No more.
This Life