Reluctant to shut the water off in the shower, feeling the safety of its enveloping wet sheet over both body and mind—an urge to crawl back in the womb? But thoughts go where thoughts will, and there comes the odd fear that perhaps as well, the water erodes one’s outer shell.
Poetry is so arguable as to its purpose and its meaning, both as a form and in its content. Therein lies its beauty: it’s very riddle ability. Story structured by sentence is in fact a sentence that it be understood with a fair amount of clarity albeit open to some interpretation, but words strung thus together make a far better case of intent. But poetry hides feelings, and even guessed upon, can still retain its mystery forever. Perhaps that’s why I use it now, and wonder if I couldn’t even speak it in daily conversation, or would that simply make people stare and scratch their heads?
Alas, it so well suits me now.
Here in weblogs where we dare to say more than we ought, poems serve to fulfill the need to speak, yet are elusive in their revelations, and even so, is truth or fiction being told? Creativity itself is questioned: Is this a more elaborate or fanciful way of saying something simple from the heart, or is it just a fanciful creation. And in either case, is creativity any the less valued?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology