Viewing entries in
"poetry"
The painter stands apart from the painting
The poet lays aside the parchment
The sculptor steps back from the statue
Each, in turns applies craft upon an object
Releasing it, complete and whole
They remain.
Where then, do we find the line separating the dancer from the dance?
Body, spirit and movement are at once creator and creation
The dance exists only with and only in a moment of movement
And in its incessant demand to be, the dance will – always does –
Consume the dancer leaving
Him draped across the floor
Her broken over the chair
Leaving them worn thin in each other’s arms
Only able to gasp a memory of remembering
The dance, only shadows of their life
Gone
Is the dance
As the dance continues upon
Another
one, two, three…
A Child
Pats the water with her foot
Ripples
Spread gently, caressing the surface
Gliding outward, searching for shore
Fading to smooth
Tiny toes
Break the fluid plain
Movement
Life upon the stillness
Reaching
Longing
Hoping for a place to land
Again and again
Each gentle touch fades
Weakened waves reaching
Never touching the distant sand
Destination
SPLASH!
Surges churn turbulence of sea
Arms and legs violate the stillness
Liquid rage calls
To the depths
Unknown concentric waves
Demanding, diminishing, stopping
Stillness
Descending shimmers
Calming the spot
Closing the circle
Cessation
Now
On a distant shore
Small ripples lap the sand
Lap the sand
Home
-Once, an Adolescent that I knew took her own life. This poem is dedicated to Cathy.
I found myself
Humming into the mattress
With you
It was an accidental thing
An exhale that sent a slight vibration
Through the sheets
I enjoyed the sound
The sense
Of my humming
Beside you – with you
The vibrant ripples made me giggle
And roll joyfully
Leaving all tension and dis-ease
I found myself
Humming into the mattress
Thank you
The beach remembers
Lover's tastes and trash
And it can't forget
Too many breezes blow
In strong currents
And sand tossing tourists
Piles of humanity
Discarded playthings
And burnt butts
Cans crushed under foot
Seasoned among sea oats
And barley stained
His hands upon her
Rumpled sands swaying
And tides wetting
Every passion gets remembered
By the beach beneath us
And our trash
A number of weeks back, several friends sent me the same link to a wonderful video of Elizabeth Gilbert speaking on the angst of artistic genius. I'm not purporting to be a genius, but I have had my share of artistic challenges.
My first true passion was acting. I felt more alive when acting, soaking up the spot light and wrestling with the nuances of character development than I did living my real life. I achieved some modest success while making acting my hobby throughout my life including some professional time with a North Carolina Shakespeare Company, and several cable-run commercials. During college I discovered creative writing and I've had a few article published (during my time as a pastor). Sermon writing, at its best, is a highly creative venue and I relished in both the creation and presentation of sermons for 15 years.
In each of my creative adventures, I discovered the same reality – satisfaction of the urge to create and the compulsion to be a part of something new and dramatic is fleeting.
Often, upon reflection on my own creative internal disturbance, I am left with the following apparent and unsavory thought - The creative spirit, as embodied in so many artists, is its own bane. The artist can devote his/herself to the task fully and in doing so risk a rapid burn or can deny the very passion of the soul and lead a life of frustrated mediocrity. My trouble with this thought is that I don’t want it to be true. Is it possible for an artist to pursue his passion and not self destruct? Is there something in the nature of art that demands the humanity of the artist and leaves her broken?
There is more to say here, but I would rather leave it for your comments. So, dear reader, is your artistic passion dangerous?
