Posts filed under ‘new poetry’
on presuming to be a poet
in gratitude for an absence
In gratitude for an absence
it seems
I have my words again
after a year’s near-silence;
i returned
to that land that lies
before the fences and lanes
that language builds
and it stunned me dumb.
now, I have both worlds again.
better, i no longer
hear your words.
silence, blessed silence
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For the first time in many years I am showing newly-written poetry publicly.
On Meeting You
On Meeting You
these shards remain
of our prolonged meeting
distorted echoes and
reflections, and
each time i touch a
shard, a shattered
memory, you cannot guess (at all)
how bitterly i bleed
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Not real life, at least this has nothing to do with a specific person. I suppose someone who always knows the glass is half full (rather than half empty)–the optimist–could embrace losing relationships as well. Actually I know some do, and the common reasoning was that it was an opportunity for growth.
Were it current, I probably wouldn’t be able to post this.
About Truth and Inarguable Definitions
About Truth and Inarguable Definitions
dreamed toward but unspoken
because unwordy*
the name of the desired
unvoiced by very nature
(whispered only by the lipless wind)
cuts
unseeable unstoppable: ‘knowledge’
like ‘love’
is one word for many things
and hence
quite inescapably false
whenever used
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Yes, coined and not an illusion of mine that it’s an existent word.
Perhaps 2 weeks old–or 2 months–but I do remember writing it, which is uncommon for me. As I said elsewhere, sometimes I go through long ‘dry’ periods with my poetry. Every time so far since I was 10 I will then proceed to find a great deal of poetry written during that time period, of which generally at least 50 per cent is scrapped, along with incomplete studies toward. I also have a confirmed habit of trying to write something and sometimes working on it for months (in the case of the manuscript ‘Voices’, decades), writing any number of poems that lead toward the final one. I’m starting to write (fictional) prose again as well. And prose with the poetry.
in memory of my fictive father
In Memory of my Fictive Father
i bear your name,
yes, but
like a scar
not like a blazon
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*Note; I finally ‘made contact with him’. [I made contact with my biological father & half-siblings in my sixties; I never bore his name. My fictive father is my adopted father.] He was in the terminal phase of Alzheimer’s. His children found my existence (as his other and unmentioned child) unnerving and unlikely at the beginning, intolerable and impossible at the end. Since the connection was made by my wife via one of the gene-testing places [yes, the implied is the existent; how else?], I certainly had no part in the cause–which was in fact long past, if you want to get down to it, but in this cause the cause for the supposition of any connection between all of us. I’d even neglected to contact them, oddly enough, at 60-some-odd and with a habit of avoiding; one of them contacted me (she vehemently declaimed that I was a mistake, later; my mother would have agreed much of my life). I was born during the formal Occupation of Hitler’s Germany (yes, that one that persists* in a number of places; this was 1953)
*Calling it The Occupation openly is somewhat dangerous, potentially. To the obvious question, hard to tell, I don’t know, um…, perspective is generally drawn from methodology,
dedicated to Quora
dedicated to quora
i dream
i think
of speaking your name
endlessly
so much that my lips
are cracked and dry
but come morning
i know no name
–nor, indeed, “you”–
my lips are quite whole
and my mouth isn’t dry
tell me
can this mean
something?
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You have to know what Quora is to appreciate this. Google it or better visit the site and try to find some of the odder questions (and answers); it isn’t hard. Right up there with Mil Millington [assuming he’s still on the web].
I came close to considering this submission-worthy.
uncomfortable truths
Too Much Truth For Comfort
to move toward you or away
just now
would require more judgment
or at least an ability to
see myself without complete distaste.
i
you see
am quite stripped of i.
fifteen years later
still captive to a long-past experience*
i still have learned
only occasional silence
as for wisdom?
not even its semblance.
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November 8, 2018 Transcription, somewhere between 20 & 30 years old. The inspiration was 40 years ago–now.
She did make me swear to never love anyone or anything, ever again; more often than not, her remembrance is sheer agony. Worst of all was the discovery that some of my ‘imaginary’ perceptions were very unfortunately quite real. No, I absolutely will not go there. Interpret that as you wish, I won’t and can’t explain.
