is there anybody here?
an echo seems to emanate from these blank blogs that become stagnate. poetunderconstruction has also grown quite silent. curiously, upon taking the ModPo course, writing of poetry has become frightening. i shall not venture as far as to say that there is no poetry within me, but there is a question of — is it necessary.
i was sharing with another ModPo student/blogger that the voice has become bogged down by a demand of ‘imagined perfection’, so the creative voice has re-embraced the canvas. after a few days off from libraryland, the lack of public interaction regenerates creativity, ergo, i started paint-slashing a canvas that has sat in a closet for 20 years. my painterly voice tends to embrace collage/abstract/unskilled quality. i tried to let go of ego and just feel the loaded brush, acrylic paint edging along to create a mess of representational lines of a story about the wolf face (already on the canvas) and the state of this human race. i am thinking of revisiting painting for a spell.
in the meantime, ModPo has encouraged me to write all over my books (which i used to view as rather sacrilege) . i have oft used current New Yorkers as paper, but now mechanical pencils (putting down the black rollerballs) makes me feel free enough to jot down words/ideas/and poems on the inside margins and empty pages. i’ll leave one here with no promise, just a blessing:
it is an odd odd time of year when we fear our own heartbeat.
Who stopped the voice from quiet
burning a leaf
f_ singing into twilight
it was her birthright
Who stopped it
Building a cave within parchment
locking ink inside
burn down these trees
her wolf roams your dreams
Cityscape, a tunnel into Harvard
night watchman holds his tarnished keys
her knees bend
forsaking these enchantments
Who stopped the voice
it was me -
is there any body here?
the lizard king spoke
an american prayer ~