writing poetry is so flipping hard
#41
(05-28-2014, 06:35 AM)milo Wrote:  Writing poetry is living in the suburbs of New York and knowing that the important things in life are stainless steel appliances and granite countertops and well-trimmed lawns and one day looking around and seeing that everyone is the exact same and wanting to maybe be a little different so you decide to go on an adventure and you get on a plane and fly to Africa so that you can be different from all the people in your sub-division discussing the importance of picking out the correct blinds. And poetry is hating the dusty heat of Africa that makes your skin itch and the smell of the people and the animals all mixing together and sleeping in a tent when it is so hot you can’t breathe and the mosquito netting and agreeing to go on a night time safari even though you really just want to stay back at the hotel and drink gin.

And then it happens to you -  poetry is that wonder of seeing a wild horse appear on that safari and being amazed at its indifference as it flexes its moon-dappled flanks and then it’s gone but you suddenly have a need to share it with others but you don’t know much about horses or have the skill you need so you make a kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and you fly back to New York and you meet up with others who have kids-crayon-drawings of horses and they remind you of that moonlit safari in Africa and your own wonder so you tell them how great it is and some people try to tell you it’s not that good and they have these expertly drawn pictures of boring old plough horses and they may be good at drawing but their boring old horses aren’t your magical horse which belongs to only you. And hopefully you can continue to be happy drawing crayon pictures of horses and sharing them with others in your knowledge that they are good and they are unique and they are your own but . . .

Some times you will wake up and see the kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and realize that it isn’t actually your horse at all so you get on a plane and go back to Africa and you search the plains until you find that magical horse and you build a farm and chain that horse to a plough and study that horse every day.  You feed the horse and the horse feeds you by pulling that plough and you learn about horses and how they really are and the horse’s silky mane turns the dun color of dust and its flanks grow stouter and it is beautiful in its honesty.  So you fly back to New York and you draw perfect meticulous drawings of plough horses that show each line of wear on the tack and the dirt of the plough is so expertly rendered you can smell the earth and you share it with others and you all share your great pictures of plough horses and occasionally someone shows a kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and you roll your eyes because you remember when that was you and hopefully you can stay this way forever happy in your superiority but . . .

Some day you may look at your drawings of plough horses and remember that one magical night on moonlit safari in Africa when you saw that one wild horse so you fly back to Africa, back toyour old horse and your old farm and you stay so long that the horse can’t pull the plough anymore so you hitch yourself to the plough and you feed your old friend and keep his hay sweet and give him oats when his old toothless gums bleed and one day your old friend lays down for his last time and you stay there with him until he expires and maybe, in that last moment, you can see him as the majestic creature he once was – that beautiful horse that appeared in the moonlight so you go back to New York and now you are Keats and you spend the rest of your life writing about everything that’s beautiful with your perfect precision and your beautiful words and people read your writing and they want to display you in their galleries in Soho or have you speak at their functions and you are happy forever.

Well, I hope that is you.  But maybe, and I certainly hope not, but maybe in those last moments with the horse, as you are with him and he is dying, maybe as your mind recaptures the beauty of that horse in the moonlight the scene zooms out and you see something else – a man seeing that horse for the first time and that is when you come to the terrible realization that your poem was never a horse at all but the horrible story of a man that saw something wonderful and spent his life trying to communicate with others.  Your poem is the terrible loneliness of mankind and you stay in Africa all alone trying to find yourself or some way to break free from yourself and smash your body against time like the waves against the shore in the hopeless desperation that is man – lost and alone. Well, I hope that isn’t you, but if it is, I sure would like to read your poem.


Amazing! I'm speechless.
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Messages In This Thread
writing poetry is so flipping hard - by billy - 05-19-2014, 12:01 PM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by billy - 05-19-2014, 12:22 PM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by billy - 05-23-2014, 05:07 PM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by billy - 05-25-2014, 10:24 AM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by Keith - 05-25-2014, 11:38 AM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by billy - 05-25-2014, 06:30 PM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by Todd - 05-25-2014, 09:13 PM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by billy - 05-27-2014, 04:14 PM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by milo - 05-28-2014, 12:27 AM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by milo - 05-28-2014, 03:22 AM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by milo - 05-28-2014, 05:36 AM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by milo - 05-28-2014, 06:35 AM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by just mercedes - 04-24-2016, 06:58 AM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by milo - 04-24-2016, 12:45 PM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by milo - 05-28-2014, 11:29 AM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by billy - 05-28-2014, 05:39 PM
RE: writing poetry is so flipping hard - by billy - 01-09-2017, 09:29 AM



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