Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

My poetry is defeated,
winded from the inside out
and the lungs of it, flailing-
asphyxiated by the atmosphere of
my pestilent writing.

My words, the putrid taste
of their fragmented state
circulating in my mouth,
the taste of broken.

My best work, I hide within
the intimate world of my Self.
I only share with others
my fleeting, topical fluff.
But now even my most intimate pieces
are anemic as a plume.
I am shamed.

My only consolation:
my words were always fragmented;
I never was a poet,
or perhaps only a fractured one.

LT
12-2-2010

Lucy, I want to climb inside of this poem. I want to crawl around on the floor of this poem, looking for my contact lens. I want to smell what broken tastes like.

Thank you Lao C, it's how I feel about my writing right now....

Thank you!

You are a member of a large society. I, for one member, am 85 years old and have been writing "stuff/fluff" for most of them. I have never known whether it was stuff or fluff but have concluded that nobody else does either. So, my friend, confirm your membership and keep writing. jim

Exactly! You've got to continue writing and hope to produce something that brings a sense of pride and satisfaction.

Thank, Jim.

the writing happens and sometimes it surprises - works well when re-read.
you never know. (& sometimes you just don't care - it happens in spite of all that)

but one thing i know - even if no one else likes a piece - it may just be the one that clinks its glass with my soul, and that's a fine present.

Very true, and well said!

Often, we find ourselves writing and seeking a sense of completion and never find it. Other times, we write for the sake of it and find a sense of satisfaction without expecting it.

Most importantly, one must continue creating!

"the taste of broken"..
I know that taste...
excellent read
H

.Lucy. wrote:or perhaps only a fractured one.

A fractured one—the fractured one—is me
(though one in pieces is a myriad
and so I lose my singularity
to those communities I’ve fostered ad
infinitum within the unity
my skin has – full of fear and wonder – pinned
within its soul, which panteth after thee
whose water-brooks of Jordan all who’ve sinned
hath cleansed and healed; whose gentle wind
has hovered over waters with a word
of promised restoration; and whose kindling
flames, though many, have together burned
in warmth and passion unified). Restore
me back to one whose wounds are more.

You,
-you are not fractured-
Your wounds have perhaps torn you,
have created scars rough with pain
and fear. The pieces of you, like leaves
tumbling to the earth,
are all from the cohesive wholeness of You.
There are no fractures to your structure,
merely the veins of your life force,
like the ones that run through a fresh new leaf.

veins of life...fresh in green leaves, cracked and crumbled in dusty dead ones...

moments and perspectives...all from a whole...

good and gracious, whether .Lucy. or joel