Your prayer can be poetry, and poetry can be your prayer.
writing
S.W.A.K.
Love letter: an inky heartprint.
Poetherapy
Writing poetry
is letting go —
once the words leave your pen
they’re out of your soul —
and the therapy has begun.
Inside the lines, outside the box
Journal: fitting your heart and soul into ruled lines.
Inching along, leaving behind
the poet is a sensitive snail —
wandering along the path of life
leaving a glittering trail of words
Wordcloth
An author, behind his words, is naked.
Long ago now
I am searching for my feelings
through shelves of dusty books
can’t help but feel I’ve left them
in some forgotten ancient nooks
as if an author long before me
captured my emotions in his day
and saved them in fine poetry
for future me to find someway
Letters from the garden
An author plants the alphabet — and harvests nourishment, flowers, and weeds.
Dreams & ink
Poetry is reverie on paper. Poets are daydreamers
A curious glimmering thing
“Time has proved that the function of poetry is not to impart messages, but to explore the depths of emotion.
“The poet is never a teacher, but always a learner. His poem is a venture at perilous discovery. The fact of writing is not the recording of something already known to the poet; it is his method of bringing to the light things that were previously in darkness for him.
“The aim of poetry is to capture those rare moments of the poet’s experience when, for good or for evil, the consciousness of life sweeps through him like a flame… the moments when he becomes passionately aware of the crises of his spirit’s secret drama, and sees a pattern taking shape in the void, and words of utterance come singing to his lips.
“Out of that dizzy instant he emerges, bewildered but excitedly hopeful, bringing with him his poem. Here, he says, is a curious glimmering thing that I discovered far down in the sea of my dimly conscious spirit: perhaps it will have a fascination for you, too; perhaps you, too, will see in its pale sphere some hint of the iridescent lights that played on its surface when in those vast deeps I found it.”
—Arthur Davison Ficke (1883–1945), “The Nature of Poetry,” 1926
Agreed!
“I don’t know of any writer who doesn’t look back at their earlier books and think: can we just shred them? You know, can we go door to door and collect them and shred them?”
—David Sedaris, to Bill Maher, on Real Time, HBO, 2023 March 24th
Heart ink
Keep a diary even if you rip it up every night.
Cracked
her head was cracked —
not tragically, just poetically
it’s how the poems got in —
and out