Attended a dinner party with poets departed secured a place in a fantasy scenario self created Dylan Thomas did not go gently to the event discussion with Yeats was heaven sent
Conversation with Shakespeare was ***** and lewd even brawling Brendan Behan found him crude Wordsworth wandered in as lonely as a lakeside cloud faced with his eloquence before me I bowed
John Cooper Clarke's showing brought mouths open wide Jim Morrison spoke, "You've broken on through to the other side!" The Salford Bard looked dead so they let him in as refusing him entry a gratuitous grave sin
Heaney was asked for his views on Brexit a number was taken for dear Seamus to text it "Here come some female poets?", exclaimed Sylvia Plath as Browning, Dickinson and Rossetti walked up a path
When I shuffle off this mortal coil with relics scattered in suitable soil eternal musing with all the above would bring evermore everlasting love
Out of all these poems I've written of love and longing, Out of all these years searching in the sea of people, I still yet to understand how it's possible to have words without a muse
I often wonder what it would be like to have a muse without words I believe it would feel suffocating As you choke on all the words you long to exhale within your next breath For a poet to be trapped by words is to be trapped by passion
Sometimes my heart swells up so big it walks across a sea of words and sinks into the deepness of the waters Lost among the clearer beats on land An abnormality pushed away from love like an ancient curse buried in my skin One day i'll make it learn to swim rather than let it sink and bathe in sin
The question still remains Would it be better to have a muse and feel like drowning, Or to have the the words to accompany the lonely?
i told my therapist about you, while your lips were still slathered alllll over my body. i showed her the places we had been, and all the things we had seen. i told her what lies underneath that pretty pretty skin of yours, and i told her how i knew. i spelt out your name as she scribbled it on her cute little clipboard, i told her about the first night and the second and the fourth and that time in the closet. i told her everything, i really just wanted to get you out of my brain, it didn't matter if saying these things put me in sososo much pain. because you've moved on so why can't i? i told my therapist about you, but i still can't tell you goodbye. i know i'm s t u p i d, for holding on this l o n g, i know it's useless, for wishing you weren't gone. but my words carry on like a heartbeat s l o w steady fast u s e d n t a y i keep keep keep breaking and breaking and breaking and i told my therapist about you.
i think part of the reason why we hold onto something so tight is because we fear something that great will never ever happen twice
come sit on my words dear reader like outdoor furniture for thin hips
while spooky poets peer up under gaudy umbrellas nervous about making a good impression
all of your hosts snuffed candles burning-out for metaphors and alliterations
begging one poem at a time for a light that we will never see
go ahead antagonize me you, who live in an idealized passed fear the future and ignore the present while i hide like a little girl behind the bare legs of poetry
that will show you!
my head a hanging web that feels words like cosmic storms tumbling stone heads onto boulders of terracotta shards
my ink smells like stinky saliva a dragging wet tongue of ambiguity a kabuki fight to the death unwinding paper machete viscera and plucking out make-believe hearts while gobbling fortune cookies containing jokes, platitudes, and fortunes that never come true in a dreamland of *******'s
Oh, to be a poet one must be so emotional. Well, no. Not necessarily. We're only really capable of understanding feeling, investigating our emotions. It doesn't mean we cry all day, or pass nights in dark rooms moping.
We have lives; come home from work or get in on a night bus back; it's from all this experience that we can draw out fact. From mundane to extraordinary we will become inspired. Our strength is versatility and life ignights our fires.
So, we do not all have to be constricted to intensity -to ponder oh-so seriously on what it simply means 'to be'. We can be strong, flirty, or mean or to the brim with confidence. For, what does 'to be a poet' mean, if you cannot explore yourself?
'Our strength is versatility' is something I feel is very important and sometimes forgotten among stereotypes of what poetry should be about