Where does poetry go when it dies within my mind? It is quickly replaced with the pain from its loss. I do not mourn the coming of the sun, I only wish the failing night did not steal away my words. I have become lost in this contest of will. I struggle with it weekly and yet I cannot make the right decision to turn away. For to turn away from my addiction is to turn my back on words that I love…
How does a poet live when he can no longer write poetry? Does he weep tears of imagery or is instead his sorrow suddenly solidified by the reality of his sadness? I know that I miss my mind even as I feel the scars building upon my chest. Would it be enough to kill my soul in exchange for the beauty of a perfect phrase? What would be the worth of such a sacrifice?
That is easy to answer… The sacrifice would be myself. How do the artists combat their struggles while at the same time achieving to create such wonders? Every poem I write is drawn in blood and that is a sad thing… but to deny it would be to deny reality. I just cannot do that.
Jason
A Good Blog is Hard to Find 
The loss of song that dies in morning’s light, does not the melancholy that its death provoke also give rise to feelings of exquisite joy? In your thinking do you not relate the destruction of the old with a construction of the new? Does not Nature flow from death to life, and does not the Poet pluck just one infinitesimal moment from that stream of possibility and potential? And if so, how might a description of his vision be maintained when in truth not even the Poet can set foot in the same stream twice in search of the one reference that gave rise to his original thought? Is it not better to let the words that don’t arrive slip quietly away so others may find a temporary home in the present within you?
All words exist and have a life of their own. They are independent of us until such time as our minds bend to the will of the words. It matters not from where they originate, but more the manner in which they allow us to find them. Would that not be a more provocative statement to put to the Poet than asking where do words go? Does the Poet not become a channel for the language of ‘god?’ Is not the hand of the Artist guided by the touch of ‘god?’ Is not the aspiring mind illuminated by the light of ‘god?’ Is not the voice raised in song influenced by the breath of ‘god?’ Are we not all expressions of ‘god?’
The eternal dilemma of which you speak: the Artist’s striving for the perfect line, the Poet’s search for the perfect word, these are undeniably worthy goals, yet we are but human, and not gods, and we will never reach such a state of grace to be considered perfection: we will only ever be a facsimile of it.
So how does the Poet, or the Artist achieve their goal. Well, perhaps they just die a little with every word and every line. But it is no sacrifice when it is done in the name of almighty Love.
DN – 25/03/14
Very nice and thanks for taking the time to share that.
this sounds heart breaking. DON’T deny it then. let reality be your guide. always.
Thanks for the read. If you ever feel like it check out my main blog at http://www.aopinionatedman.com I am currently posting there. 😉
south. it goes south. simple as that. hard to imagine this world getting on without me, isn’t it?
Truly. We would miss the insight. 🙂
Reblogged this on Sonmi's Cloud and commented:
Where do broken poems go…….? A well written piece from OM follows.
I shall give this another home, in the form of a reblog . 🙂
sonmicloud
Thanks and I am glad you liked it. 🙂
I did indeed. Have you ever thought of taking up writing? You’re not bad at it ;p
sonmicloud
Precious friend, you are the poet and writer I hear you speak of. I see him right now ❤ no disrespect meant in arguing with you on your blog 😉
Heh, I never view that as disrespect. You should know that by now. 🙂
🙂
Reblogged this on 2l2phant.
To deny reality is to live a lie. I cannot do it either. Many nights I can barely sleep because the words pour out of me, if I sleep where do they go? If I forget them what becomes of them? The fill me up, spill out of me, yet they still haunt me; the conundrum of a writers mind.
I have always liked that word, conundrum.
Yes one of my favorites too. It has a wonderful cadence.
I appreciate that. I will admit I don’t intentionally count out the rhythm… it normally comes out ok. 🙂
And you don’t think you would be a good dancer; you have just described the best way to dance. No counting just flow (and technique) like free form writing.
🙂 Now that I get. Every post I write is free form at the start.