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Writing a poem is about locating self.
Every facet within what you’re about to create
blooms from your consciousness, your subconsciousness
your ego, your mind, your heart

But where are those elements planted?
Where are they rooted?

They are rooted within:

your ethnocentric illusions
your lived reality
your privilege, your pleasure, your pain
your abilities, your disabilities
your socioeconomic status: have and/or havenot
your fluency, your empathy, your sense of humour
your vices and your storytelling devices

Now we've got some roots, what are we going to grow?
Let’s begin by observing, using our senses
Maybe, let’s use our eyes
Consider, the reality of how we see and sense the world
Is different for each and every one of us

Everything is tempered by the lens we use
Which is informed through the roots of our synapses
Which empirically flow from the subjective ground
On which we stand

And what does this have to do with poetry?
What you describe in your poem,
Is an interpretation of what you see (and feel)

Interesting poetry comes when
there is exploring to do
It is a poet’s imperative to
Explore the edges
Out past the boundaries of the visual and audible spectrum

If we were fish poet’s
Would we write poetry about water?

I like to toy with my teenagers on occasion
So I asked my son the other day, what his worldview was?
And I have been enjoying the vacuous silence ever since
To be fair, I have been asking myself the same question for many years
And this might have been the inciting incident leading me to storytelling

As we began this journey together, it was stated that
Writing a poem is about locating self.
Can you describe your context?

Let me attempt to describe mine:

Here I am on the stage in this ocean of air
At the Owl Acoustic Lounge
On a Wednesday night in May
Popping air with rhythm, nuance, and a certain je ne ce quoi

Although this poem is not objectively true
Let me attempt to share that
this poem blooms from my developing cosmology
From the overtures of my Overself;
from the undercurrents of the Monomyth,
From my ***** and through my groans of intercession
This poem blooms from oblivion
Threading through philosophy, to worldview, and into a budding cosmology

For myself:
Worldview fell away when I found cosmology while reconnecting with the night sky
That night sky took me places while grounding me concurrently in inner spaces
Where locating self flows into meta-cognitive health,
Well ... that is something to write about
Preparing for Shakaat Artist-in-Residency. Performed at the Owl Acoustic Lounge on May 24, 2023.
ConnectHook Aug 2019
Butter-baste in haste
For better poet-taste
Reposting pastry
Poet-tastery
Pronounced as mastery:
Poetastery

Past repast
It goes down fast
Poetic firsts shall be last
Lyrically-paced
Poetry-based
Poetry's straitjacket, unlaced
Lack of meaning showcased
I just vomited it up
(for your erudite perusal)

*** I'm like SO totally embarrassed.
Just found out how "poetastery" is actually pronounced.
I'm all LOL just like ***.  
Fer reelz.  ☺♪☻☺☻ ♪♫
Jupiter Jan 2019
don't inflict me with your
introspection,

dangerous, idle, self-reflection,

tap out of my headspace

my cerebral territory is not a good place

I don't need to think about my thinking

metacognition is a fruitless mission

I'm telling you now

get out
get out
get out
an award winning poem
Stefania S Apr 2018
inside of my mind

where no one else goes

darkened and shady

brilliantly posed

flowers run wild

while fears plant their seeds

i quietly sit

spaced out and relieved

empty voices speak

notes too high to hear

other times louder

than a scream to the ear

windows glow yellow

the moon sometimes too

mostly alone, unless i think of you

i’m walking down roads

alone and afraid

an empty hand

a shovel-less *****

toxic is the blood

that feeds off my thoughts

memories and wishes

destroyed and distraught

a kiss far too much

an embrace miles away

waking and sleeping

night turns to day

victimless mind

how quickly you fall

under the spell

cast by the call
ConnectHook Nov 2016
Be careful all you free-versin’ poetic hook-up artists and practitioners of unprotected textual *******. There are pernicious poetic maladies out there online. Casual cruising of ****** sites might infect your soul with bad verse. The wages of sin is death; but I would spare you AND your muse any viral  regrets.

Random coupling with unstructured lines you just picked up at some postmodern poetry site is NOT a healthy lifestyle in the long run. Go ahead–-call me a Victorian *****. Make fun of meter and rhyme schemes. Hoot at message-oriented versification. Throw inchoate drivel in my face… but when you come down with a compromised semantic system or an embarrassing case of nihilistic verborrhea, don’t come crying to me.

This has been a poetic public health reminder.
A poetic rant for HP.
Jasmine Skye Apr 2016
Meta cognition
is what's in my heart, why
did you promise till death do us part?
Play the tape through
I'll keep the possibility
in my back pocket
Behind the black line is where I stand
Outside the context is where I am lost
ConnectHook Sep 2015
☺☻☺☻

When painters who paint about painting
meet writers who write about writing,
self-conscious redundancy
bordering lunacy
ends in esthetic in-fighting.

These modernists, right about nothing
(mostly nihilists mad about something)
are so lost in the process
they vent all their excess
in metacognition: dull writing.

You poets who muse about musing –
unaware you are reader-abusing,
provide a terrific
verbose soporific,
yet not of the hearer’s own choosing…

I long for some righteous verbosity –
but I’m stifled by all the pomposity.
This dull erudition,
“sub-metacognition”,
is but an artistic atrocity.

You thinkers who think about thinking
drag my spirit far lower than sinking.
What we want is a Word
which we haven’t yet heard –
so till then I’ll just drink about drinking.
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/

☺☻☺☻☺☻
Lauramihaela Apr 2014
I have always been a writer.

When I was younger
I thought my ability to write
Was finite. I thought
My creativity would dry up
Like a pond in summer.

Now I realize the number
Of stories you write is not limited
To the number of pages you have
Or the amount of ink in your pen.

Creativity is the wind around us:
Although you can never really catch it:
You feel its presence on your skin
Even though it's not always present,
It's always certain to return.

I will always be a writer.

— The End —