13 Dec 2016

Do you feel the world go stale, Marcus, crumble slowly like yellowing paper on your tongue, the taste of a stranger’s words written a long time ago, yesterday’s cigar smoke still curling through your mind, your universe a ferris wheel of vapid ennui without a single new syllable in its maw, crawling anti-clockwise around an imploding force.

To stop the blinking cursor, you just have to keep writing.

But Marcus, you can’t just write, a poem that is never read is like that accursed tree isn’t it, was it even written?

What happens next in that scene, after a dozen people hear the tree fall? Or is it just the one guy who keeps walking, disinterested? What will validate your poem?

Or validate the poet?

counting stars
in the pond again
sleepless koi


38 thoughts on “13 Dec 2016

  1. The interesting thing is I was having a similar conversation with my husband about art in general. Ultimately, it is our own hearts we must please in these things otherwise there’s not much point to creating at all, even if everyone in the world reads it.


  2. I love these conversations. You infuse such uniqueness into them. They make me stop and focus. Love the haiku. To me this writing was full of hope, which we all need. And, like Marcus, we need to keep writing.


  3. Had to look up “ennui”…”a feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from a lack of occupation or excitement.”. before that I was following you then ? “ennui” after that, I caught up. Your audience is not and will ever be more than your inner circle.Which is fine with me. I was told to broaden mine
    Love ZQ


  4. I resonated with your words. So many times, I have asked myself the same or similar questions. Reminding myself, often, that it makes no difference if no one hears, sees, or reads it. I have seen, heard, and listened to my own truth, and that is all that matters. There are too many among us who dismiss the value of their own voice, never seek to know what lies deep within them. Miss that singular richness, and satisfaction. That, to me, is the far sadder reality for they will never know what they might have given to the rest of us.

    Yet, the salmon swim
    upstream, fighting for the right
    to live again



    1. I think I like being that upstream swimming salmon…hopefully there is no waiting bear and I live to write another day.. at least to know the value of my own voice. Words of wisdom Elizabeth. Always appreciated. Thank you.


  5. Perhaps, like virtue, it is its own reward?

    ‘The real writer,’ said Marge Piercy – who should know – ‘is one who really writes’. Nothing about getting read.

    I always think the first impulse is the making (the expression, if you like – though poetry is more than just self-expression). The impulse to communicate the poem is secondary. But then, they are more than impulses of course; they are needs. It must follow that both are necessary.

    Hmmm, what about Emily Dickinson? Well, she did show her poems to a few people, so I suppose even this is not and example of pure writing for writing’s sake.

    And yet … why else do we do it? It won’t make any of us rich and very few of us famous. For many of us, even our nearest and dearest will never truly understand. And yet we do it anyway; we must. It is a compulsion. Are compulsions valid? Or is it just that they simply are?

    Why does a poem need to be validated anyway? Any more than a butterfly might? Or a blade of grass? Or a mote of dust?

    But if you, the poet, need the validation of a reader, a listener – perhaps you could see the poem as a way of talking to God.

    I like pondering your questions.

    Until next time –

    As ever,

    PS I like those koi.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Delighted to follow your train of thought… it is a compulsion, yes and that’s why we write, but is that enough… I hope the pondering pushes me to write more.. write better. Thanks so much.


  6. In one sense we–including poets–are in lives as fleeting as the lives of koi circling, circling and as fragile as the reflections of stars. In another sense, we are part of all, always, with this our carnal life a mere wink of all the forms in which our spark lives. And how does what we do here fuel that? Heartbeats, language, passion, poems …are they not all prayer offered up to a greater truth, a balancing of good and evil? I’m pretty sure, based on rejections from presses and magazines, my poetry is not of a lasting caliber, and yet it is my prayer and it is me. Why? Because. God calls and I answer. Or am I calling expecting an answer? You always get me thinking.


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