Poetry, Marcus, works only when you drag that one thing that you haven’t told anyone, haven’t even dared to acknowledge, and splash it in all its unfamiliar ugliness over the page, warts and freckles and scars exposed to a horrified light.
And then, instead of the overwhelming relief you expect, there will come the realization that it was never yours, it didn’t matter and the past has been just a farcical caricature clinging to a borrowed mirage.
Well then that becomes the burden you carry, the muse that will spring a hundred more melancholic eulogies to time and love and the impossibility of living.
How many times can you spin around that same axis of phantom hurt.
As long as you’re still pretending to write poetry.
even the wind will stop
when it finds an ear
to whisper its last secret
Phantom Road 
Well that’s one way of looking at it. 🙂
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Yeah, sometimes it even starts to make sense. Sometimes. 🙂
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The muse needs to borrow hellfire for fuel every once, every while.
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Beware the muse that traverses nine circles of hell just to birth a poem 😀
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😀
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Oh, yes, and “spinning around that same axis” just might send us off in a surprise direction. Did you ever play “crack the whip” as a child–a chain of laughing spiraling linked humans until the last one flicks off into the universe — or the grassy yard?!! Thanks for responding to my note, for bringing me here.
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I looked up the game and your metaphor is fantastic… Wow, love how you connected it to a children’s game.. the universe tries to tell us things all the time, sometimes we need to stop and listen! Thanks a ton Susan.
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I read this yesterday, and thoughts kept surfaces, so used it as inspiration for my first day of the PAD challenge for April. As usual, your words make me think deeply, thank you,
Elizabeth
http://soulsmusic.wordpress.com
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Thanks so much Elizabeth.. appreciate the link. Am glad you liked it.
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