monk222: (Effulgent Days)
Having run back hard to poetry, as if my life might depend on it, I am reminded of how 'hit and miss' it can be. To better your odds, I suppose you have to find your poets, those who seem to see and feel things in the way that you do, so that you can feel their harmonies and better share your pain and longings.

This time, though, I am not quick to drop it and dismiss my passion as merely another passing mood and just rely on Shakespeare and Homer for my poetry needs. I can be content now simply to come upon a shiny phrase or a resonant idea, anything that can reflect back on me and my misery and how we share it. I now have a ravenous appetite for food that might feed my soul, and this seems to be the specialty of poetry, with little plot or history or logic, but all soul, and I am glad if I can just happen upon a few crumbs wherever I can find them.

Prose is for learning, didactic, you could say, and my days of learning are effectively past. If I haven't learned something by now, it is likely to stay unlearned. To be sure, I do keep open some precious time for prose: my morning reading session, whether it is for the full morning or just an hour. After all, I am not fully dead yet, and the revolving world and its revolting politics are not entirely without interest to me. But then it is back to trying to understand the yawning emptiness in me before it empties me.


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September 2017

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