11 May 2017

It’s what we do, Marcus. Read a poem and presume to know everything about the poet. A few drops of blood in the sink and suddenly every reader is Sherlock Holmes, pipe, hat and all.

Isn’t that the poet’s calling, to let his soul bleed on paper.

A poem is a dragonfly, you see it flash by, a blur of colour and hum and impending rain. There’s a story in it, a grimace, a sigh, a mirror. But it is not garden or the sky and surely not the poet.

That’s what the reader sees, not the ink stained hand that held out the mirror that captured the dragonfly that dropped out of the sky but the other hand shielding the mirror from the first raindrop.

Elementary, I suppose?

leaf by leaf
autumn paints the scene
bare branch and frozen water


9 thoughts on “11 May 2017

  1. Oh, but dragonflies are the gatekeepers of Dreamtime, and someone(Borges), once said that “All writing is dreaming.” So, we dream and we write, and then dream some more. We can’t control the reader’s response. Readers will do what they will do. Just as we will do what we will do. And what we do is invite them into the dream we are making.

    Autumn arrives
    Dragonfly flutters its wings
    Giving breath to poet’s dreams


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    1. All writing is dreaming… that’s beautiful. I like the fluttering of its wings..like the chaos theory example.. kicking off a storm of words. Thanks Elizabeth. 🙂


    1. A little notebook tucked away under a pillow, locked in a desk, discovered a century later… the subplot thickens!! But I agree the insipid reader will tilt the balance in the end.

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