How much one can write
about grief, about pride?
I focus on silence.
I am a poet of Mundane,
of Nothing that take place
every moment, goes on,
unrolls into a lazy carpet of days
embroidered with noise,
granules of paint, sand,
droplets of water.
Later it grows into a song,
a painting, a fortress or waterfalls,
a novel, a jewel, a castle, a storm
or none of the above.
How could I know
being in the middle of all of it,
playing my infinitely small role
by breathing in and out,
by not thinking my life apart?
I devour a silence
It taste like an ice cream
it is sweet and cold like a nose
of an inspired dog or maybe
even an anteater.
Silence doesn’t have words
and is patient with me
fillind the pages of my biography
with genuine sighs and joint clicks.
I love it.
Silence,
between notes and lines,
in response to my major questions
I am yet to be tired to ask,
I am your poet.
Comments
Remarkable skill to create so
Remarkable skill to create so much out just silence. You are a wordsmith...Apleasure to read this one more than once and then in silence absorb the poetry...
Regards...
Thank you so much for reading
Thank you so much for reading, my friend.
It is less about silence but more about my life that is composed of small moments that are coming together at the end and I am not even sure what and when it is going to be. As infinitely small approaches zero, the moments of my life approach silence.
Thank you for reading. Hugs.
hmmmmm....thanks for the
hmmmmm....thanks for the elaboration.....i don't know what to read into "the moments of my life approach silence"...hope all is well and continues to be well...
warm regards...
Raj is right
And you are a fibber!
"I am a poet of Mundane," "playing my infinitely small role". Self-deprecation is very unattractive.
You finally tell the truth with
"Silence,
between notes and lines,
in response to my major questions
I am yet to be tired to ask,
I am your poet."
You are not so different from a Bukowskie or a weirdelf, your mind, like all poets, never stops looking, seeing, hearing, listening,noticing all that is sublime, ridiculous, ugly and gorgeous. You merely express it more gently, elegantly,with the generosity of spirit that allows your reader to find it for themselves, instead of bludgeoning them about the head with it as I tend to do.
There is grandeur between the lines and in the words. But no more self-deprecation or I may come visiting with my bludgeon.
Hey, Weirdelf, thank you for
Hey, Weirdelf, thank you for reading and commenting. I am not sure what fibber means.
But I ment to say that my poems are build from small things. It is not self-deprecation, it is my poetic credo, my style.
it's gentile talk
for liar. You aren't of course, I was teasing.
But give me some credit, please. I've been reading and appreciating poetry and poets for fifty years. What's the point of honest critique if you say "oh, that's just my style"? I'm telling you this one is different. You were lessening yourself and it didn't come across with the full integrity of the rest of your work.
I acknowledged your skill and subtlety. I am also acknowledging that some voice inside you was demeaning you. This is not your best work.
It is okay. Perhaps i could
It is okay. Perhaps i could not deliver the message.
Just simply notice that I do write a lot about small seemingly insignificant things.
a 1000 thousand words can post a picture
SILENCE
loudly speaks
at millions of miles
conveys so much
silently
what is left behind... in one's silent mind
ere departure...
I agree. Thanks for the
I agree. Thanks for the comment.
thanks
When we were has been revised awaiting your
scan
MRS ....Magnetic Resonance Scan
I want you to diagree with my critique,
it is very important to do so, however you must explain why. Saying "That's what I do" is miles not good enough.
My dear WElf,
My dear WElf,
Just imagine how important all these small things that when accumulated makes us jump out the window. Think about how when we are in the middle of it, we don't see a big picture and how silence sometimes gives you that distance.
Anyway I write about small things about how important to pay attention to them because they are life itself. This poem talks about it, it explains why I write what I write.
ok,
I'll move on to another one.
hopefully you skipped me
unknowingly
too many comments come across your verses
all understand
but where do we stand
we must also understand
small page's hands
Sometimes it is not clear how
Sometimes it is not clear how to reply, so I take time to think about it
take ur time
there is no hurry
I ain't going to worry
Irene
Imagery, a trail of thoughts some only can never be true.
Mundane for mature and a few other places that your thoughts drifted into a fiction to make us cringe that you could ever be other than a true thinking poet of great writes.
Run now and find a mirror of truth, then write one that we can believe in.
I have read many of your writes so I can tell the difference betwixt write and wrong..
Yours, as always Ian..x
Hello there, Ian.
Hello there, Ian.
I am glad you can.
It is less obvious to me sometimes.
I think you misunderstood me. But it is my fault.
My guess I used wrong key words.
Irene
I have had to read your piece a few times more.
OK an inroad to your real self from a mundane thinker to a vibrant action person and My Poet,
I will read several times in future..
Yours as always Ian. xx