Solitude is the welcome catalyst for my creativity
The clutter of familiar objects is so reassuring
Vulnerability and spontaneity my trusted allies
Flattery insinuates itself as a malignant disruptor
Some unwelcome intruder in the private process
Conceit and deceit are the eternal collaborators
For love
of poetry
I sat on ledges
a stone gargoyle
of hesitant
romance
I hid my face
gave myself
a new name
kissed
a storm on its
booming forehead
made peace
with more than
a few excuses.
the artist is the heart of the world
beyond the spin
beyond the soothing rain
the artist is the sensing feeler
the flickering tongue
crawling in dense underbrush
the world grows darker
the artist is a glimmer of light
words and pictures
sounds and visions
paintings of an inner life
in the ruination and thereafter
the promised gardens
that you deny ever happened
defy you in an unchanging frame
an iron figure
fixed in original damage
its original painful husk
and the stubborn monster
the essence of mystery
for the rest of your life
They rise early, busy
hands scribing, visiting
then revisiting,
coding cautiously,
each small sound caught
in the filter of the exchange,
straining at verb, glimpsing
at meaning, hinting
at overall patterns, painting
findings in paragraphs,
poems, brush strokes, then
starting the process
all over again for clarity.
Oh, dear. It seems I have lost
an ocean.
While coloring. There is an entire
expanse here I have rendered in a rustic
green and burning orange-brown.
I believe there is a body of water there.
But what is it?
My lack of traveling feet has led me
to create a super-continent today.
More at https://jddehartpoetry.blogspot.com.
The ars poetica
The poetry of it
I walk on measured
Tones of poetry
Of nothing
Out of pavements
Of stark loneliness
A man in grey coat shouts
By the pavement
He is a poet expressing
His ephipany of freedom
No one says anything
No one looks at him
No one smiles
No one calls him mad
Somehow his madness lingers
On me
I reach home half drunk.
Ink flows like blood in deep blue
She picks me up several times a day
Fiddles around with my logo
Flirting thoughts surrounding her smile
I have no gender
I’m comfortable resting between her fingers
The caress of words
That connective tissue between
Mind body and me
Waiting for something grounded in electricity
I need to write what she wants to say
To know what moves her in that way
The prelude to life’s temptation
The way words grab the page
Hungry for more
I’m drawn into its fire with thoughts
That can melt ice with just a breath
She squeezes my stem
Releasing the hook
Taking me for a spin
Romance in its form undressed
With emotion
Release to the rhythm of the wind
Symbiotic transmission
a poet with a disorganized brain
Ideas crack corn by the minute
from a tap that will not shut off
loves the idea of treasure hunting
anything that comes to mind
he holds the golden pen
watching his words
burn deep inside the page
nothing compares to
the indescribable birth of invention
no time or space for anything else
a kaleidoscope
bits of lined paper
broken rhythm
half sentences of
dismantled rhyme
ticker tape and confetti
always whirling or
sleeping sideways on the floor
still homeless metaphors
keep pounding on his door
try getting torn pieces
to fit together
overwhelmed
in the pitch black of the night
boxes of sacrificed ink on paper
why bother to write
as things fly by in life
and you see only part of the wonder
when the stellar music inside you
becomes unstuck
and you’ve sacrificed all but perfection
following an unknowable voice
that will take you very high
you tremble for a while
before realizing what’s inside
wrapped like a gift
the sound of a windless sky
in a black eerie silence
going through gears and levers
another way of being born
rainbows produce completely new colors
genius now alive
for the first time
seeing all the way down
from unknown sunlit positions
beware the things you beg for
a cornucopia can overwhelm your world
half-cooked poems undigested
buzzers go off
in the pit of your stomach
thrilling ideas spin around
inside a half second life
not good enough
you pay a price
in the bottleneck of perfection
you are the overspill
on your knees
weeping
begging depth for acceptance
If you do not enter
the heart
now, there will
be pain.
A poem in offing
sealed coffin
and, all those poems
up at arms, in protest.