I used to think that the metaphors and ideas in my head were merely ways I entertained myself. That the imagery and games I played with words were child-like ways I had of viewing the world.
And maybe they are. Maybe all I am doing is spinning wheels and creating horses out of thin air and so much sand.
But maybe … maybe there is another reason. For those of us that write poetry or, for that matter, create any kind of art … Maybe we are supposed to write or create and make havoc and merry. Maybe we are supposed to create something out of nothing. Beauty out of pain.
Maybe through art we find our shared experience, our sense of community, a common bond. I think of this community and I am awed by the fact that we wrap ourselves around the globe, yet so many of your offerings resonate, or teach.
Someone told me I was a poet, finally. He’d read enough of my writing and train of thought and he looked at me and said it as if it was as plain as the nose on my face. And once my beloved Poet told me that I was a poet, I felt something click inside. A piece of the puzzle locked into place. Or the world unhinged and swung open. Or both.
I believed him. I believed him, embraced it, take it seriously and I am all in. I am committed to the work of becoming a better writer, a stronger writer, to write bravely when I feel afraid. I am equally committed to lifting other writers, other artists, to give them a voice and a space to work on their craft.
I haven’t been writing lately like I should, and the reasons why are many and as varied as flavors of ice cream, or shades of blue. But knowing you are here inspires me. I see the magnitude of your work, this outpouring of time, effort, energy and creativity that is rich and vast and interesting and unexpected.
This place, and each of you, make me happy. You delight me. You feel like family and neighbors. I am always glad to see each and every one of you.
I hope you find nourishment here, too.
I believe in saying thank you but perhaps I do not say it often enough.
Over here in America it is the season of thankfulness, a gentle time to let the people in our lives let them know how much we appreciate them.
So thank you, contributors, followers, and readers, from the bottom of my heart. I am thankful for you all.
Melodies unfurl with a twitch, a light trill,
And the man leans back, savouring every note
Cloaked in black, and stained with tears,
Winter’s gifts a forgotten sight. Under the stars,
He bows his head, straightens his back, and the haunting
Begins. He slams on the piano keys, sorrow a dark cloud.
He remembers lying down, watching the clouds,
He remembers the chirping birds’ magnificent trill,
He remembers her – her bright green eyes haunting
His own. Her hand, knotted
With his. He remembers lying down, watching the stars
As each twinkled, then faded, merely a tiny tear.
Yet her soulless body besieged his mind, tattered and torn.
Each passing bar, a doubtful cloud.
He sees not the stars.
He hears not the trill.
But only senses the funeral of the notes.
Like death angels chanting, dancing, haunting.
He plays to hunt
Her spirit, to guide her to fill the tear
In his heart. Each note
Forms her silhouette, dimly glowing against the black clouds,
Against the wintry mist. She smiles at each familiar trill,
Her eyes are gold, like the stars.
The music makes the fair moon and stars
Weep, for its haunting
Siren beseeches attention. Hark! Music flows like a rill,
As his fingers dance over the piano. Too abruptly, it stops. The air tears.
He hovers on the piano, like a cloud,
Contemplating. contemplating. contemplating. Too soon the notes
stop
for your reference:
Word 1: trill
Word 2: note
Word 3: tear
Word 4: star
Word 5: haunt
Word 6: cloud
