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mike-essigPoems
We are not quite like monks, although we, too, sit. A monk sits and seeks to find nothing in nothing. We sit to create something out of something. Things float in our minds: childhood slights and successes, puberty, hormones, pain, our first fumbling ***** our first bewildering wars, colleges, conquests, rebuffs, disappointments, jobs, marriages, children, divorce: all that has brought us to this moment alone. The monk sits in deepening quiet, unmoving in silence. We sit, hand caressing a pen, a typewriter, a computer, waiting upon experience, hoping that its loose images and uncertain memories will coalesce into words. When they do (not always), we call that a poem and we call ourselves poets. The monk devolves into a nothing that is. The poet crafts a something that isn't. Is the something we have wrought more than the nothing that swallows the monks? Or is it very the same: not an attempt to touch the depth of being, but to become the depth itself. Not to be a magician, but to become magick itself. To bow to the god within ourselves and allow it voice or silence. We both, in our ways, do what we must do. Namaste.   ~mce
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Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
Poets
We are not quite like monks, although we, too, sit. A monk sits and seeks to find nothing in nothing. We sit to create something out of something. Things float in our minds: childhood slights and successes, puberty, hormones, pain, our first fumbling ***** our first bewildering wars, colleges, conquests, rebuffs, disappointments, jobs, marriages, children, divorce: all that has brought us to this moment alone. The monk sits in deepening quiet, unmoving in silence. We sit, hand caressing a pen, a typewriter, a computer, waiting upon experience, hoping that its loose images and uncertain memories will coalesce into words. When they do (not always), we call that a poem and we call ourselves poets. The monk devolves into a nothing that is. The poet crafts a something that isn't. Is the something we have wrought more than the nothing that swallows the monks? Or is it very the same: not an attempt to touch the depth of being, but to become the depth itself. Not to be a magician, but to become magick itself. To bow to the god within ourselves and allow it voice or silence. We both, in our ways, do what we must do. Namaste.   ~mce
I meditate; I write poems. I sometimes wonder about the connection.
mike-essig
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mike-essig
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
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