snuck up on me she did
I wuz mindin my own bizness ya know
when all of a hot damn lickity
comes this fancyshmancy
I didn’t ask for it, see?
I didn’t sit around like I do now
tryin to stoke it to life
likea…well..ah..
just steps in the room all nice and friendly
and gives me this pretty little
sweet smoochie somethin and
the next thing yaknow
I’m writin and it don’t matter
about what cause it never does
turns out s'got nothing to do with me anyways
this is just an apartment she hangs out in
the basket where she lays her eggs
givin me a wee
bit of a cudgeling
so humid dark corners
might offer her tiny nubbins
a fertile nest to root
see what I mean?
this is fair warning:
run from the muse!
run fast!
run while your feet still have some sense
before they start their crazy tapdance
before yammering thesauri battle royal
for phrases on empty white pages
smackin you around
to the song of million hungry dead poets
never the same, you see
words you never heard in ya head
suddenly hang on the wind
right before yer eyes
in colors so delicious
the air starts thumpin
then there’s the gods to contend with
and a beloved or two
nestled over there in a corner
can you imagine?
I tell ya the easy life is over
once she taps on your shoulder
and smooches you up
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Jan Wilberg
Sirenita Lake
Robert Crook
Kenneth Sibbett
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Kathryn O'Hehir
Salon.com
Comments
One thing I get every day is that writing poetry is tapping into the divine, the beloved, the other, the greater self, the unconscious and has very little to do with me. I feel I just get to color it, edit it. I like that, that this other energy comes into play.
I get that with painting but...BUT...painting is something else. you are creating another physical being that stands on it's own. A poem is that but not: it is the other made visible. Perhaps a painting is too. I'll have to swish that one around in my brain for a while.
How'd the poetry slam go the other nite?
Went well. they liked my poem. I like their poems. gave crit. then we had a little annual lunch, which was nice. they're good people. this group has been together a long time and they're very welcoming.
this is a far cry from the local painters group, who are - for the most part - unwelcoming and terribly senile, even with young artists. you can sit there and hear the arteries clog, and I'm not kidding.
I love this: "words you never heard in ya head / suddenly hang on the wind . . . in colors so delicious"--the way you mix sound, touch, sight, and taste. Brilliant, Monkey Lady!
Continue to write the flow.
You say so much so well dear..
Me loves it!!
You, too?! God I thought it was just me. The first line or two pops in, I think...well, it's sort of like 'gotta poop', but in a different anatomy part. Then the whitepage. Then type type type and a poem. Most of the time I just read it after, it's that disassociated. I usually know what I think they mean only to read them later and realize holy crap, that's actually about ...
so different from sculpture. Sculpture took weeks/ months to finish and I knew what I wanted it to look like before I began. This is different, and for all it's apparent transparency, it's all hidden ..at least it is from me.
PS - I know exactly how you feel.
:-) / r
Was
AWESOME!
__ R __
the craving for it.
Lovely poem, exactly how it feel. I love love Pablo Naruda, a great mentor to all those addicted to the muse.
rated with love
:D
THANK-YOU for the intro to "Naruda's magnificient poem."
Your piece is pretty inspirational as well!!!
Check your PM-I hope you like it.
And I, too, adore Naruda.