She asked what’s wrong.
“Nothing,” he stared at the wall.
“You sure?” she didn’t seem concerned.
“Yeah,” he lied.
“I love you,” she lied.
“I love you too.”
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Monday, October 17, 2005
What it all means
I sometimes wonder what goes through a writer's head when they write, and I wonder why they write the way they do. In case anyone ever wondered that about me, here's my story.
Poetry expresses an emotion, occurrence, dream, thought, moment, wish, fantasy, idea or ideal. For me, poetry (and verse, and all that other fun stuff) becomes an avenue of escape from the mundane and predictable to the surreal, improbable, and even impossible. The beauty of poetry exists in the interpretation; the ten different ideas or thoughts that ten different people can get from the same few lines. Poetry can open doors to places no one ever knew existed. It unlocks something within us, draws on our own references to pull us into that moment or into our own moment. Verse can produce anger, tears, reflection, derision, interest, fascination, infatuation, love, hate, denial, guilt, and boredom, among host of other emotions. Poetry is fluid and takes the shape of the readers mind; I like it that way. My idea when I write a verse may be totally different than the reader’s idea when they read it. And it should be that way. Readers can interpret lines differently based on their sex, experience, background, age, time of day, etc. What makes sense to some is gibberish to others. What touches some angers others. What bores one, may inspire another. Poetry takes words, assembled in a unique package of lines, stanzas and structures, and opens window. That window can become an opportunity to unleash a wellspring of feelings or images. The words are free to assume whatever forms the writer and the reader chooses; the only limitation is imagination. For me, poetry expresses much in a short amount of time. A few simple lines can contain the same story as a novel, condensed, leaving the reader to fill in the details. It requires a willingness by the reader to fill in those blanks, to complete the poem so that it is only for them. Unlike a novel, there is no beginning or end, just possibilities. Sure, you can point at the first word and the last word and say it starts here and ends here, but someone else may disagree and say the beginning was long before the first word, and the ending is still being written. At least, that’s the way they see it from their window.
Poetry, simply stated, is nothing but a jumble of words with limitless potential, to the writer and reader alike.
It’s meaningless and meaningful, helpless and helpful, true and imagined.
Poetry is what we want it to be.
And it just, is.
Poetry expresses an emotion, occurrence, dream, thought, moment, wish, fantasy, idea or ideal. For me, poetry (and verse, and all that other fun stuff) becomes an avenue of escape from the mundane and predictable to the surreal, improbable, and even impossible. The beauty of poetry exists in the interpretation; the ten different ideas or thoughts that ten different people can get from the same few lines. Poetry can open doors to places no one ever knew existed. It unlocks something within us, draws on our own references to pull us into that moment or into our own moment. Verse can produce anger, tears, reflection, derision, interest, fascination, infatuation, love, hate, denial, guilt, and boredom, among host of other emotions. Poetry is fluid and takes the shape of the readers mind; I like it that way. My idea when I write a verse may be totally different than the reader’s idea when they read it. And it should be that way. Readers can interpret lines differently based on their sex, experience, background, age, time of day, etc. What makes sense to some is gibberish to others. What touches some angers others. What bores one, may inspire another. Poetry takes words, assembled in a unique package of lines, stanzas and structures, and opens window. That window can become an opportunity to unleash a wellspring of feelings or images. The words are free to assume whatever forms the writer and the reader chooses; the only limitation is imagination. For me, poetry expresses much in a short amount of time. A few simple lines can contain the same story as a novel, condensed, leaving the reader to fill in the details. It requires a willingness by the reader to fill in those blanks, to complete the poem so that it is only for them. Unlike a novel, there is no beginning or end, just possibilities. Sure, you can point at the first word and the last word and say it starts here and ends here, but someone else may disagree and say the beginning was long before the first word, and the ending is still being written. At least, that’s the way they see it from their window.
Poetry, simply stated, is nothing but a jumble of words with limitless potential, to the writer and reader alike.
It’s meaningless and meaningful, helpless and helpful, true and imagined.
Poetry is what we want it to be.
And it just, is.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Purchase
Buy me the sky, and paint it orange and green
Buy me a mountain top, and bring it down to me
Buy me the ocean blue, and put it in my room
It doesn’t matter to me, as long as it comes from you
Buy me a painting, and put it under my bed
Buy me a kettle, and put it onto my head
Buy me a book, that no one has ever read
It doesn’t matter to me, as long as it comes from you
Life is so much sweeter
When I’m spending it with you
The water is so much deeper
But I’m not afraid with you
Buy me the music, no one has ever played
Buy me the hotel, where no one has ever stayed
Buy me the rhythm, and pair it with the blues
It would be so very sweet, as long as it comes from you
Buy me a second, maybe a minute, or an hour
Buy me a day, a month, or even a year
Buy me a millenium, or maybe even two
It doesn’t matter, as long as I spend it with you
Life is so much sweeter
When I’m sharing it with you
The water so much clearer
I’ll dive in with you
Buy me forever, and place it in a jar
Buy me your smile, and place it in my heart
Buy me your heart, and place it here with mine
Together beating, until the end of time
With you
Sweeter
With you
Buy me a mountain top, and bring it down to me
Buy me the ocean blue, and put it in my room
It doesn’t matter to me, as long as it comes from you
Buy me a painting, and put it under my bed
Buy me a kettle, and put it onto my head
Buy me a book, that no one has ever read
It doesn’t matter to me, as long as it comes from you
Life is so much sweeter
When I’m spending it with you
The water is so much deeper
But I’m not afraid with you
Buy me the music, no one has ever played
Buy me the hotel, where no one has ever stayed
Buy me the rhythm, and pair it with the blues
It would be so very sweet, as long as it comes from you
Buy me a second, maybe a minute, or an hour
Buy me a day, a month, or even a year
Buy me a millenium, or maybe even two
It doesn’t matter, as long as I spend it with you
Life is so much sweeter
When I’m sharing it with you
The water so much clearer
I’ll dive in with you
Buy me forever, and place it in a jar
Buy me your smile, and place it in my heart
Buy me your heart, and place it here with mine
Together beating, until the end of time
With you
Sweeter
With you
Saturday, October 1, 2005
=
we love one another
we hurt one another
we take care of each other
we share with each other
we're best friends
we're bitter enemies
we give and take
we love and hate
we feel left out
we work it out
we push and shove
we kiss and love
we push and pull
we are equal
we hurt one another
we take care of each other
we share with each other
we're best friends
we're bitter enemies
we give and take
we love and hate
we feel left out
we work it out
we push and shove
we kiss and love
we push and pull
we are equal
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