Not by politics alone: Tuesday evening poetry open thread
Lately, I've felt the need to feed my writing tank with something besides the fuckery of the day. For me, that's always been poetry.
Poetry and music are my balms. Listening to a poet recite her work, or to a musician pull magic out of a piece of wood or brass, reminds me that the universe is a wonder-working place, full of miracles and mystery.
When I write, whether an essay for the blog, or a piece of creative writing, I don't know from whence the words come. There's an apocryphal story that Michelangelo claimed that he didn't sculpt; the sculpture was already there in the marble; he merely chipped away the extra material. I feel that way about my writing. Delving too deeply into its workings destroys it.
I've been thinking over the past week about a project I can take on. I still have my novel, but that's my white whale. However, poetry is what I turn to when I need to feed my soul.
I have decided to compose a collection of sonnets. These sonnets aren't strictly constructed, in the sense that I don't care much for rhyme or firm meter. But they adhere to the conventions as far as form: fourteen lines, written in either Shakespearian or Petrarchan style.
I hope you'll indulge me if, occasionally, I share some of them with you, as well as some videos of other poets calling upon ancient magic.
The Form Dictates The form dictates that this should be About love. The form dictates that I should Spill out my love for you. The form dictates That at the end, after all the words, After all the prosody, I look into your eyes And everything is set to rights. The form Dictates, sometimes, a happy ending, Or, at least, a promise of hope. Form is misleading. Life cannot be Encapsulated in fourteen lines, in iambs And rhymes, in similes and metaphors. Life is grander and lesser than that. Try as we might, life will have its own, For we shall reap what we have sown.
May you have a good night, friends.