This entry heralds the second season of my blog. I’m trying to decide the direction and thrust I want the blog to take. I have words to share and dont want to lose the momentum of whatever I’ve gotten going. (If it isnt already too late for that considering how long it’s been since my last entry.) So without further ado . . .
Sometimes I feel like my life is a pen and I’m always writing. Even in my sleep. Writing my dreams. The dreams my nocturnal imagination invents. This is what it means to be a river of words, an ocean of artistic intent—which leads to an industry of ships, sailors, cargo and shipping lanes lonely as undiscovered stars. Those stars, those lanes, harbor not just my imagination but my images and my night.
What more to say of effulgence? We poets are always searching for more light; more light to see by, more light to bathe not just our words but our life quest in . . . our fulfillments no less than our frustrations. What more to say of where the stars have led me? And where is that? Only to the obvious? To repeat the obvious? That my visible life serves my—or rather, the (since it isnt only mine)—invisible life? Is that the bottom line?
Art makes it visible. Writing about it makes it visible. Because the invisible cant be talked about, it can only be lived. It depends upon words to animate it and to record its veracity and compulsion. It may be mystery, but I refuse to call it mysticism; it is the truth and taste of its flesh, its movement. It is the wind I breathe and that breathes me until the trees that lose their leaves in winter create shadows that sing.
Poetry serves my purpose. I see, hear, taste, feel poetry in just about everything. At least everything that enriches, empowers, makes me want to dance, to use my body as a pen and write love letters on the sky.