Looking about...
Category: Scattershooting,Ramblings & Life
Via: broliver-thesquirrel-stagnasty • 11 years ago • 18 comments
I was just looking about in my old office space and I came upon a file box containing old designs for silver jewelry that I have made, written words to songs both performed and in process, and some of my ancient poetry.
I get a little rambly and off track sometimes so I won't bother you with prattle more than to tell you that this particular poem is circa 1990-ish from when I was finishing up my Geology degree. My mother had died a few years prior to thewritingof this and, while not pertinent to the poem itself in subject, it is pertinent to the state of mind that sometimes comes over me.
No Way
Second Guessing,
To abstraction
Only Thoughts,
Never action
Always Plans,
Always yearnings
But, as always,
Never turning
Never Turning,
Outside the shell
Always into
Internal hell
Sliding, Slipping,
Grasping, Gripping
Latching onto
What is not there
Never will Be,
Never to see
Introspection,
Never Resurrection
Of my soul
It's plain to see
I try to hide,
Inside of me
For what it's worth, I retain Copyright
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A look into a searching and dreaming soul - beautiful, Brolly! You have wonderful poetic ability.
Really interesting poem. You really have a sense of introspection. A very fine poem.
Ain't it true, Brolly, ain't it true? Good poem and thanks.
I think that is lovely, dear Brolly-- just lovely!
Thanks so much for sharing it with us!
Very good poem Brolly, I usually call you squirrel, but perhaps I need to follow the others and call you Brolly..Now, did you look into my soul???
very good.
I oughta, I've done it my whole life!
Thank you, Perrie.
I never have really understood poety but I do like that poem!
CM, Perrie and I named him Brolly, and I am glad you like the name! It means umbrella in English, you see
(in good, old England). He is an excellent poet and songwriter!
Thanks Neetu, I so like the name..thanks again
I really Don't mind Squirrel...
I don't think poetry is to be completely understood.... Now how do I explain that?
Poetry speaks in different ways to different people. Some people like to work on there poetry and create layers of meaning, carefully laboring over each word, each syllable to make it just right. When I write it is more of an organic process, I credit my muse with lining up the words which then seem to fall out of my pencil onto the paper. Now, of course once it is all vomited out of my pencil I might go back and clean up the puddles, make them more uniform, clean off a bit of ick... but then I feel it is up to the individual reading the poem to see whether they get the poem on any level. I have done my part when the writing is finished. It has to go into the world to achieve any meaning but that which I personally give it.
And thank you very much!
Why, Because I didn't think to post it there.
Inside yourself is a good place to be... sometimes. So few seem to go there; maybe they are afraid of what they might find? Personal change, attitudes and "action" start from within.
Very contemplative, reflective poem, Brolly. Thank you.
That's very impressive, Brolly (or squirrel or whatever the latest nom de plume might be...)
Poetry is song of the heart, in my opinion, and the best comes out in spontaneous moments, straight from the heart.
I was looking about for an appropriate picture to put behind this poem have not found it yet... will keep you posted
You're a poet and don't know it. You're explanation is poetry. Very nice indeed.
Please, share more with us.
Poems, prose, lyrics, songs, it's all good.
Thanks, for ruminating. I, too, in my youth, in my lost, yearning yearswrote poetry, short stories and lyricmany moons ago, then, in a fit of disgust one year, threw them all out. At first, I felt a sense of relief, as if an 800 pound Gorilla glued to my back was ripped off.
Later, years later, I am lonely for those words, those poems, those thoughts, those sort of lyrics lost. The price I seemed tohave to payto writewasunending pain, loneness and angst.
I can only remember bits and pieces of one poem that still haunt me and tugs at my soul to be freed, but, time has faded my memory and obscured it beauty with an unwelcomed reality:
"Inside everyman a burning battle rages,clouded under the thinfaade of disguisesit lies. Eating at eyes of the dreamer, crushing the heart of the schemer, stopping the "wannabe" lover dead paralyzed in his awkward tracks.
"To others,less effected it is self pity, indecisiveness, or, a thousand other inane adjectives hurled like grenades at the war tore victims of self hate."
I remember how difficult it was for me to find anything to love about myself, back, then,in San Antonio. Others must have, also, for these were the cold, lonely days of my early twenties, when I had just returned to the United States from Vietnam, and, was uncertain about what I wanted to do, what I could do, or, how might I do it.
I remember that when I readthe expanded version in my creative writing classes, or, at a gathering of like minded loss souls,several in the audience would weep. I loved that I could elicit a feeling; a feeling that I felt in me, and, communicate thatto others,who felt it, also. Their reactionshared it back, again tome. And, I, too, would weep. But, not as deeply, not as long, not as powerfully strong. It served as a cleaning. Eventually, I hide behind humor and struck out searching for gold, but, really, all I have ever been doing is looking for love.
Share your stuff with us, we, of the "complete strangers" syndrome,that we might, also, share ours, at times, with you. Let us weep in the shadows, celebrate in the sunlight and be glad that things were the way they once were, and, now we are who we wanted to be.