March 24, 2010

2 Comments

Tags:
  • Independence
    • ,
  • Life
    • ,
  • Reality
    • ,
  • Illusion

    March 24, 2010

     

    I.

     

    I awaken to a music

    That is happening for real

    When I walk it is upon

    Floors and upon dirt

    And it’s in life I live.

     

    I created as an artist

    Places and people that were

    My own and born from

    A great magician’s illusion.

     

    II.

     

    The books I write

    Trail behind like heavy chains

    But when I finish I’m free

    From the shackle

    And let it be an object

    Seen or ignored.

     

    III.

     

    She and her are words

    And ghosts on paper

    In my work that have

    No real hearts that pump

    And lips that kiss.

     

    There’s only me now

    In the bookstore

    And in the movie theater

    And there is no need for

    Anyone or any-her beside me.

     

    IV.

     

    After I have my coffee

    I do my stretches

    And I feel pumped as

    I put on my headphones

    And walk out the door.

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    SavVySam commented on March 24, 2010

    03-27-2010

    I am so glad you invited me to your page! Through your very straightforward and present style in this piece I feel as if we've been introduced. You've a very creative use of imagery, and that magical second stanza just glows! Thank you for sharing, and I will be reading more of you soon!
    Reply to Comment

    hippiegirl commented on March 24, 2010

    03-24-2010

    ghosts on paper, no real hearts that pump...thats awesome :) another great poem!
    Reply to Comment

    bryanpaul86

    03/24/2010

    The idea of 'ghosts on paper' was inspired by something Kafka wrote that I remembered... I think it was from a letter he wrote to someone...

    bryanpaul86

    03/24/2010

    Found the Kafka quote: "Written kisses don't reach their destination, rather they are drunk on the way by the ghosts." I was bored, so had to look it up. Now, I must seem like such a literary nerd. He wrote more on the subject than that, but that quote sums it up.

    Poetry is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality.

    T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.

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