She searches hidden places, knowing intuitively that poems are the bubbles hidden within the caldera of creative volcanos. Letting those bubbles come slowly to the surface or with an explosion decides the tempo of her writing.
Her readers wonder who or what is she. Her public image is glimpsed in kodachrome negatives; her movements a shadow under curling waves. She started writing herself into the world as a young girl and only her secret muse knows her life themes have played always against that central being.
The men in her life often reflect the same urges to combine perfect words with soulful belonging. Between lovers, her poetry aches with desire like cracking earth surviving a drought. Among those cracks are tortured yet strong desert flowers that reveal her stark beauty when she abides with loneliness.
When the drought is over; with expansive joy of flood and rebirth, she shares the pleasure of newfound spring, a rebirth of love and the world stops, just for a second and lifts her high as it's favored champion.
No longer does she need to question her purpose or allow desire to gestate in sanctuaries for pregnant thought. No longer must she await the birth of a new flower endowed with her thorns.
In the moment, her words lick and touch us, phrases flowing like lubricating oil from kisses to post coital bliss as we are carried by her intimate command of feminine superlative.
Does this mean she's a better poet in love? Not really, but this aspect of her is the summit we can see her from, most of us are too timid to follow her into dark valleys and barren deserts where she falls from love.
She writes poetry with intuitive understanding that her words never capture the total experience but so close as to leave a reader with mirrored ripples on the surface of his mind. She fills our need for belonging nearly as much as her own.
We read her poetry in the shadows of afternoon trysts. Learn her rhythms through tactile fingers of words and with each sensual phrase, she tempts us to linger. Then she leaves us, curiously satisfied with the final stanza; but with certain desire for more. And, more, she always has to offer as if all women whoever lived and loved will be revealed in the pages of the next write.
She can take us back in time or forward in fantasy. Into the darkness of death or the depths of madness, for she is a poet and speaks the language of dreams.
You can 'know' her but never really know her, anymore then you can know the essence of dreams that Oracles cannot see. She does not see her own marvel, intuitively sensing that her original vision is impossible to capture, a smoke ring only she had the imagination to grasp. No more than a man knows a woman's heart without comprehending his own can most people fully understand her desire to capture the purpose of being a being.
But other poets feel it intuitively; knowing that as they lift her up, they will be compelled to climb the heights beside her.
She writes poetry and poetry, is life connecting to life.
Last edited by Eternum 1 on Sat Oct 04, 2014 9:44 am, edited 1 time in total.
Excellent read. Another D.H. Lawrence.
I'm almost content with this one, thanks Gerry.
This prose calls to awaken the muse...I'll think of it this afternoon as I go about work.
IIRC (if I recall correctly), don't you have two other poems about "She Writes Poetry"...or something like that?
Yes, it's a theme that I sometimes return to. This one is a rewrite of a piece from 10 years ago.
I can definitely relate to your poem, especially the last 3 or 4 lines. I've never visited this prose section before because I usually write shorter poems and not verse or stories.