poetry
26 Apr
Poem
If you read awakenings with any regularity you know I often find expression for my emotions and experiences through poetry. I revel in the process and therapy of my ‘regular’ writing – of wielding words and digging deep and laying it all out in specific detail. There are times, however, when the structure and punctuation and grammar necessary for good, solid prose makes the words too distant, too removed, too separate to really connect with the heart of my experience. That’s when I turn to poetry.
In many ways, poetry is the truest expression of life experience for me – both writing my own, and reading the words of others. My favorites (Mary Oliver, Audre Lorde, Erica Jong, Rumi, Rilke), the passion and inspiration of spoken word and slam (Alix Olson, Andrea Gibson) and newly discovered gems along the way (so many finding their way to me through kindred spirit MLC).
Poetry lifts me, transports me, echoes my own experiences and takes me to places I’ve never been. I’ve said before that I could happily drown in a good poem, and that has never been more true than during this period of transition in my own life. I think that because these months have been so raw, so honest, so rooted in sex and sensuality and in the down and dirty of intense emotion – it is poetry that provides the greatest release. Poetry has the unique ability transcend my life and to ground me deep within my experience at the same time.
Tongue-tied Blue is one of my favorite bloggers, She writes, always, in poetry. I wonder sometimes when reading her words (words that take me to the most exquisite, sensual, erotic, succulent* places) if I met her in person would she speak in verse? Does she think in the same effortlessly luscious-free-flowing-stream-of-consciousness verse that spills from her fingers onto my computer screen? Her writing is so organic, so immediate, so stripped down to barest truth that as I read I’m right there with her – feeling, touching, experiencing, reacting, knowing – and it’s almost difficult for me to imagine that she exists in another form.
Today I visited her blog and found this:
i love the feeling of her
skin
how she does it, i don’t know
but her skin is
so very smooth and coolly
supple under my hands
endless caressing miles
i could gladly
i do gladly wander, marvel
across her sleek surfaces
the more i let myself worship there
the more i forgive myself
the years of holding this
the most passionate, truest sex mystery
at an uncomfortable distance
my relief and redemption
allowed yet still
in measured, serene, clean-shaved doses
and as to prove the paradox of all truths
and i struggle truly to find words
because this part is wordless
when i bring my full attention
to my face and
when i bring my face
between her thighs and
when i breathe in deeply
the earthy tang of her
the parts of my brain that kick in
are not the parts that bother with words
or with ideas of redemption
or with even identifying the self
instead it is purely sense and sensation
wet curls and silky flesh
hot and salty pressure rocking
deliberately and thoroughly
the tongue with it’s own agenda goes
time? fuck time
she’s moaningand here i am
with no guile, no pretense
sure and present
i know it in my knowing
being
all the way through
this is no theory
no opinion or speculation
no adopted facade to cover
the mad, confused scramble below
here, finally
i am
And I could attempt to explain what it felt like for me to read those words, and read them again, and again – maybe 15 times now – with shivers down my spine and a heart beating with the cadence of the words. I could attempt to explain how it feels to absorb of someone else but to connect so deeply within my own reality. I could attempt to go line by line and tell you why each one resonated with me. How the final words “here, finally i am” nestled themselves into my heart and roared from my lungs because they are my words, my thoughts, my feelings too. I won’t do any of that, because I couldn’t even come close to fully expressing what I want to express, and I won’t because if you’ve been reading this blog – really, really reading it – then you’ll already know.
Share some poetry with me, won’t you? Who are your favorite poets? What poems echo your own experience, allow you to dive within your own reality and explore yourself on a deep level? Do you write poetry? Share it with me here if you will, or email it to me (awakenings.blogsome-at-gmail.com).
*L – if you’re reading, yes…that word is for you… 
when she rested
her head
on my stomach
and looked up to say
“lay back,
tonight
i want to focus
on you”
her face was a poem
and that night
when i watched
as her eyes closed
and her neck
arched
and the ecstasy coursed…
well
the closing
and the arching
and the ecstasy
they were all poems too
yesterday
when my words
burned and she
snapped and
went outside to work off the fire and
i sat silently on
the edge of our bed,
her voice
and the sound of the door sliding closed
and my silence
were also poems
of course,
the first time I saw her in glasses
was definitely poetry
as was the hot chai
(with vanilla and soy)
in the earth-brown mug
she made me before work this morning
and don’t forget the patterns our feet make
when we dance in the
living room.
that poem is one
of my
favorites.
you wouldn’t necessarily
think it but
the fact that we both hang our bras
on the handle of the
closet door
and the fact that
her virgo-self constantly needs to reorganize
the tupperware
are just as poetic as
the way she likes to watch
me when i read
or the feeling of her arms
around mine three nights
ago when i had used up
every last ounce
of myself taking care
of others and just
needed so badly
to have someone
take care of
me
and because all
those moments are
poetry
it is understandable
that sometimes they
flow from our hearts
like ink on smooth
paper
and other times they come in
fits and starts
and with lots
and lots
of deleting and
that sometimes we choose
all the wrong words
(but don’t quite realize
until the poem is
completed what
was not quite
right about them)
or that sometimes we begin
what we think
could be a
great poem
but it fizzles out somewhere
and never really comes
together and we want to crumple up
the paper
and use it to play
basketball
in the garbage can.
but the
thing
about poetry
is that
there are no rules
or at least
that you get to make
your own
(like the way
i cut up my
sentences however
i want
and don’t use
capitalization
even when spellcheck
gets upset
with me)
and so our
poems
can be what we want
them to be
(or not be)
and nobody can tell us
how many verses
or where the climax should occur
or get angry because our sentences run on
or that we’re not doing things
in the correct order
or edit it to fit into
some predetermined
form
and so
we’re free to
keep right on
making poems
when we make love
and when we fight
and when we wash dishes
and watch movies
and clean toilets
and when we dive deep
and when we release
and when we live.
and so its
okay that
this poem didn’t really
get finished
because I’m running late
and have to pick up
my wee girlie
at school
because
i don’t think
that this kind of
poem
ever really
ends.
Breath-takingly beautiful. xoxo
very very nice. the poetry that is love. happy 2009, following, lurking and occasionally leaving my footprint.
Beautiful Jen! I am incubating on my poems …meaning enjoying the experiences but haven’t formulated the words for all of these lovely things that are beginning to happen for me and have turned my world inside out.
every one of your poems becomes my favorite.
xoxo
just checking in. take care, HUGZ>poet
I’ve made it this far, going backwards, through your archives and I’m trying to wrap my mind around how YOU could love MY writing. What I love about your writing is that you write like no one’s reading. I struggle with my knowledge of audience so immensely that it hinders my expression. You are unhindered, or at least you seem to be so, and I envy your freedom to convey your whole self through mere words.
I’ll stop just short of begging (for now), but please, please, please write something for BGAIT.
Oh, and poetry? Adrienne Rich, Dream of a Common Language.