if you’re really honest in your poetry, you leave yourself wide open to criticism, you hurt other peoples’ feelings, you hurt your own. I am that kind of a poet. A poem is a linguistic manifestation of emotions. I don’t share the tranquility I feel when ironing a shirt or loading the dishwasher, but I do give you glimpses of both the mania and the depression associated with the beginning and the end of human relationships. The middle is something we all know. It’s usually the reason for the end. Today, I’m going to give you two middles, which one would you choose?
I. Mountains, rivers, country roads
Barflies, bards, and bats in the living room
we never sail or fly together
but our canoe is well-used
as is our tent and our bank account…..
II. Conversations on a country path
Coffee, pastry, language lessons
we never went to Paris
but we know the Rheinland well
III. M Street and a mountain lake
The rest of them are too short to describe, although numerous. These three suffice to describe the way I’ve lived my life at the middle points of relationships. You may have already read the beginnings and the ends, or may have experienced them. Fire, ice, and other cataclysmic nouns, surrounded by adjectives rich enough to make you pray before a porcelain god…..
No comments:
Post a Comment