in defense of poetry

How else to tell you

         of the movement of

the universe that sets my world to tilt?

 

Where spatial acuity and intuitive thinking fall down

and weep

at the feet of blank spaces and odd numbers begging

direction

 

I scratch for description of the structure of blue ink

on pulp paper . . .

the humidity of black seas on windless nights,

         the way my lips sometimes speak

in dry dust

 

For the latitude of line and length; the way I like

how they intersect, conjoin,

tear apart . . . forever changed

yet spent

of further locution

 

And still I dream

I can hear the world

running out of time and tolerance for

small words

. . .  for small minds ~

 

The measure of meter and moments

sit in whimpering, drying ink

falling off the edge of sense and

sensibility

 

How else to tell

you

       who can’t hear?

Reviews

[Forest Green]

When expressions move from descriptive, defining and explaining to circular, redundant and vague, the love of language grows stale and insufferable, words are as inconsequential as thoughts left unspoken and distrust of the pleasant entanglements of relationship lead to isolation and illicit notions of how love and life ought to be.
To me you've demonstrated the frustration that accompanies the loose ended feeling of having nothing in common. Where do they go from here...?

Well done, indeed...!

[Abhra]

There is so much in this poem. The palpable yet subdued anguish. A poem that has a storm beneath the tranquil. The need to be heard but the wounded pride which refuses to say it out loud because they may not be heard. It bleeds into poetry. This is a poem festering with anguish. I particularly like the way it goes on different tangents and yet is in perfect harmony. Another spectacular piece of work.

[Wolfwind Words]

Wow! This is music for the eyes and soul! Your choice of words and deep felt emotions bring images that etch and stay with the reader in that place where poetry comes from.
I see in this piece the poets frustration in the world around us in these modern days. Fewer and fewer people appreciating large words, deep intelligence and the ability to taste good prose. The simple folk have lost the way, yet the poet still clings to the ancient spark of creative ink.

Wonderful Ink J!
Wolfie

[Patient Poet (Yos)]

Thats really beautiful :) ... real poetry

[Avoiry]

"I can hear the world
running out of time and tolerance for
small words
. . . for small minds ~"
I love this so much , this in itself paints something for me. The words have a sultry slide to them and i love the tone it carries through out. It is very thoughtful but sharp as a tack to pin the point. Lovely piece.

[Tate Morgan]

Oh for want of an epiphany we all look at the words and wonder of the millions of possible combination's which ones will open the flood gates of emotion and make our work immortal

[emmajoy]

When you roar you roar with such beautiful phrasing, taking the reader into another place where poetry is not just a means to an end of expression, but is the finite beginning and end of everything! You seem in places to be searching for inspiration, yet, you seem also to be your very own mistress and slave, nudging, nudging .. and what a great muse you are!

[Arthur Henn]

Love the title, Love the poem - Love these four lines...

I scratch for description of the structure of blue ink
on pulp paper . . .

For the latitude of line and length; the way I like
how they intersect, conjoin,

[Ed Hart]

yes, but you say it so well

[Brad]

And still I dream
I can hear the world
running out of time and tolerance for
small words
. . . for small minds ~

that line was a punch in the guts...loved it! no i'm not sadistic..i just love it when a poem hits me on an emotional level