I love words.
Love reading them,
love writing them down.
I am so much in love with words
that just being able TO write them down
and hear them 'sing' as I read them
is the reward for the work of getting it
down on paper. (or computer screen).
It is work -- but it's something I have
skills for just because it is
where my passion lives. It is my music.

I think about the levels of artistry
in what we all do
that take us from one day to the next:
everyone has poetry in their life.
There is no greater thing than
to find your 'voice' and sing;
to find how best to express
the poetry in your own life
and be aware and alive to it.

Poets find the words to express it:
Musicians use pure sound to express poetry,
when the two are joined you have a song.
Artists / Craftsmen create a visual
representation of their poetry.
Dancers, of course, are "poetry in motion".

You tug the fabric of reality and
the golden thread of Your Poetry will
catch your eye and tease your mind.

Then -- you go with it. Whatever it is.

I think Art is the reason the Universe exists.
It does NOT matter if the only person
to take pleasure in your art is *just* you.

There is a ripple effect when a person
is aware of their own art. Poetry flows
from that person in everything they do.
The mechanics of creating IT --
that's interesting, sure; especially
to people who appreciate what is
given to the world, who want
to DO that sort of art, too.

But every person's Poetry, whatever
art it is channeled through to be realized
-- is unique and important
just for the uniqueness.

What bothers me is the artificial packaging
of things to make them seem "more"
than what is real: often it shunts and
conforms the true beauty of Poetry
into something less,
so it can be sold to more people!?
argh.

Better to avoid marketing and just BE.

On the other hand -- if you have got
to make a living, and all you are good
at is your Art --
then you have no choice but to use it.
however:
Integrity does not whore around.

Poetry, the real thing requires the integrity
of Truth -- and Truth is Integrity. for me.

That is all I have of worth; and in being
faithful to it -- I have Poetry.

I inquire within
and out it comes.

Preen much, do I?


~~~~~~~~~~~
Time passes
-- a metronome
started and stopped
by an unseen hand --
the minutes don't count
it's simply about
the beat the beat the beat
and what you do around it...
~~~~~~~~~~~~

I look at my writing and
I see a line or two from
pages and pages of words
that I think, "wow, that is good."
Not great, never GREAT: but my brain
correlates the work of others
that I admire and measures my scribbles
against 'em. (There. Right there.
Notice the self depreciating factor.)

And it doesn't matter, does it,
how many people tell you you're "good."
Genuine accolades or whatever hyperbole
they toss at you -- you wonder what
they're REALLY selling, or if they
are banking against a time they want
something in return.
The harshest critic is the one
no artist worthy of the title can escape:
himself.
But also --
no one fully loves the work
as much as the artist, too.