phases of poetry.

[rowens]

I used to try to craft pretty little poems out of subjects you'd expect. Love, death, beauty, nature; all that. But now I think too much, and feel so many seemingly opposing things: As if every thought or feeling I have, and all I see or hear and so on, open into a spectrum of sensations and ideas. And I'm trying to carve out places in myself for all of that, while crafting subjects and conflicts themselves into forms, that can coexist with the standards of reality and "lived life". Making rhymes not sound forced is the achievement of rhyming poetry, because you are subject to the form. And it's that magical effect of having both been a slave and a master, and constructing a beautiful piece of art, that moves people so intensely. At this point, all my subjects, even simple objects, hurt me very much; like all my tools and materials are covered and full of thorns and mind altering fumes. A true craftsman is very humble and mature in his obedience to the work he does. I'm not in a humble phase: I'm about mind bombs and inner explosions. So when I can work out something tender, and delicate, it's like a rare diamond formed in the crushing heat of all the aftershocks. There's a cliche for you.