A Contest of Catharsis or why the poet withers.

 

A shoal of words applies converged

upon a rustic rhyme

An instance of the truth because

it matters less each time.

 

A letter being confounded seeing

the right before the wrong

A simple turn, free language burn

to leave or stay, for long

 

Frightening away with what to say

shows a lack of all control

Surprised at last, with what was past

in all the stories told

 

Write them down, not to confound

but to get at all that will

scrape and maim, tear and stain

words this singular fill

 

And finally ask, catharsis passed

the reasons, are they honest?

the blessed speech, its hand unique

fully controls this contest

 

 

Author's Note

Only one of a myriad of reasons and not written in sadness, far from it.

Reviews

[SM Davis]

A letter being confounded seeing
the right before the wrong
A simple turn, free language burn
to leave or stay, for long

The former before the latter seems to be how each being operates. It is only through the tests of time that we seem to find the right....This is a testament again to your gifts...You have taken the questions of many and placed them into an answer for the few.

[Jimmy Yetts]

Image: As Close as Most Adults Can Remember Being.

It's not that you express things we don't understand; it's more like you perceive things the rest of us are unable to express.
Wonderful!

[Ken Simm.]

Thank you so much my friend fo saying I might be doing something right.

[Phil Sanders]

A fascinating write ....as always ....

[Gandré]

Hi Ken, this sounded like an emotional cleansing through some "poet's drama"; at least I didn't see any repressed thought in the end, it is another poem I like for I can see the complexity of your writing. I enjoyed once again.

[Lionel Braud]

Very creative use of a minimalist approach to chisel away at the jewel of what words can or cannot do.

[W.k.kortas]

Somedays it's difficult to know whether we are the tail or the dog. Winsome and well-constructed look at the notion that we sometimes need to be willing to follow where the words lead us.

[Emily B]

It isn't about us at all; only the words, most days. Realizing that we are only the vehicle for the message and not the divine creator, well, it's bound to let the wind out of our sails.

[R J Askew]

I like the notion of a shoal of words. I can see them swirling around like a mass of pilchards, all glinty, full of life. question is do we catch them or do they fill us in some way? I think we receive this stuff and can't make it up ourselves. If we receive we write if we don't we wither. Is there much we can do about it? On the other hand maybe we are born with a shoal of pilchards in us and we then catch a few, grill them and serve them up. And then when there are no more left of we can't catch them we wither. Either way, we wither and are replaced. But then they say the human brain has a gigantic capacity, so maybe we all could do more, could somehow control our minds and force them to work better for us, become more efficient. But that seems like an economists approach to creating something. I can see it's not a sad poem as the question of how and why all this frantic creation happens is utterly fascinating.

[Siddartha Beth Pierce]

Ah, yes, the tangled web we weave when at first we do conceive this myriad of emotions, words and play upon the pages. Great write - I was consumed by the whole of it. Thank you.
Light,
Siddartha

[SPINNING ON that dizzy ..]

Like puzzle pieces in a box without the picture on the top. Each piece holds its own story and even beauty. As they begin to fit or maybe just go together - something is there to see.... sometimes its too much blue sky and sometimes it is all mud.... Some days you put the pieces back in and give them a shake hoping they will go together better the next time and....... some days I just want to read the finished book.

This is lovely in the meanings it can have... like thoughts and questions pondered, some answered, some solved or at least dealt with.

Kath