her soul bloomed in the wild
….and stilled among the thorns
her soul bloomed in the wild
….and stilled among the thorns
I’ve been reading different thoughts towards the various styles of poetry here recently and even more recently a certain opinion about the definition of a poet, down to even the choice and repetition of words used. This has sparked a nerve in me that I simply needed to express my frustration about. What better an outlet than here, where like minded writers, poets, photographers, simply artists as a collective, live.
Poetry is defined as a type of literature that conveys a thought, describes a scene or tells a story in a concentrated, lyrical arrangement of words. For starters, can we truly put a label on poetry? Sometimes they rhyme. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they are short, sometimes long. Okay yes sure, one can write in a certain structure such as sonnets or haiku’s. But even still, there is no “wrong” way to write poetry.
For myself, I’m a free verse lover. Just like my fictional writing, I’m a panster. I plan NOTHING. I just write and just as when I was a child with coloring, almost always outside of the lines. I once read somewhere, a good writer is one that doesn’t feel the need to edit their words written in the middle of the night. Can’t help but think that’s where the true heart of a writer lives.
I’m personally a huge fan of this tagged title now of “micro” poetry, which brings me to the largest debate. It would seem those of us that write “short and sweet” are being shamed for our lack of true length of what poetry should be. (I invite you to reread the definition of poetry as I cited up there with emphasis on that lovely word straight out of the dictionary, concentrated.) I mean please, tell me, is their a guidebook out there somewhere that recites a word count to the true definition of what equates to a poem? Anyone? Anyone? Yeah. thought so. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge lover of the classics. My God Edgar Allan is a rockstar and that Keats and Thoreau…more please. But does that mean the “micro” writer like myself is any less phenomenal? I don’t think so. If anything I think it becomes even more a talent, an art, to be able to move someone in such a way in as few words as possible. Just today a coworker came up to me, after having read my latest poetry book which contains poems of only ten words, and said to me how do you manage to pack such a punch in so few words! Of course I was beaming. Any writer would react the same at such praise. I often think of this piece by Ernest Hemingway when I adapt to this logic:
or a slightly longer piece:
Secondly, shame on those that even judge and ridicule another writer in the first place. Perhaps they themselves are feeling slightly insecure within their own writing (news flash we all feel this way about our writing) that they feel the need to lash out at another. Or maybe they are just that old fart sitting in the corner bemoaning how us young folks got it all wrong. (Sorry to all you old farts I do love the ones in the corner rooting us young folks on)
Speaking of young folks. I’ve recently taken to utilizing my Instagram site for more than just a gallery of my photography, as I discovered quite the community of poets and writers alike over there. I have been in awe over and over and over again at the words I’m reading, passionately so by the likes of teens and twenty somethings. This is where I must admit to eating crow upon talking one night to a fellow writer of my discovery and pegging Instagram as the “young crowd” and seemingly “angsty”. I ate my own words not long after that upon discovering these talented young souls that write both in quick snippets and long passages.
Lastly, I think it is imperative for us to embrace one another within whatever writing community we find ourselves in. We are a unique lot. We strive to be our own voice. Whether that’s in short waves or long cruise ship journeys, it makes no difference. As long as we continue to be true to ourselves, even if that puts us out there by ourselves amongst the Emily’s and Poe’s of the world. Don’t be afraid to be a Hemingway. Do you. Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re simply writing in a “trend” If so, it’s the longest damn trend I’ve seen still going strong.
I’d love to hear your opinions or if you want to share that you’ve experienced this. Thank you for taking the time to read this. Be kind to each other.
deep into the hollow
in the moss of free
where the river parts
and the roots swell
beneath of me
til the day is dawn
and the night finds
the blackbird’s call
i shall be
i shall simply
Bridge over the river Almond in Blackburn taken by M.J. Richardson Suggested fun audio: Cocoon de Chocobo from Final Fantasy XIII composed by Masashi Hamauzu When I’m happy I reflect upon the small forest beside us at my childhood cottage in Seafield, Scotland. Covered in a thick blanket of snow with delicate snowflakes still gently falling. My…
the sun drops beneath the day
as twilight emerges from your touch
a quiet awakening of dreams
our moon holds
my heart it bleeds, wildly so
I captured these images during this season i like to call the awakening, I take every opportunity to find new trails and beloved known ones to find my own sense of renewal. Nature shall always mimic life as with every new journey, a new bloom unfurls.
Thank you for viewing and if you’d like to view more of my flora images, you can visit my gallery here
every level shed
she pockets a little sun
to feed the flowers
eyes reflect the shades
of every journey taken
under the same moon
i know not the lengths of this journey as time now ticks ghostly so,
unbeknownst to me,
it coils it’s precious and vile tocks within the ruptures of my brokenness
my tumultuous cries rise
as i dance in this mirage of a storm
watch me glare into nothing
as the ticks and the tocks busy themselves narrating my life before me
in this my nirvana i tread
to bleed, to smile, to weep, to laugh, to burn
coming out of the fog
to find my breath again
I know this may seem like a dark piece, however, when I wrote this it was from the inspiration that fell upon me at the site of this breathtaking piece of funerary art that rests upon the grounds of Rock Creek Cemetery in Washington DC (just across the street from the nationally known Arlington Cemetery).
Upon returning home and reading the story of its creation, I knew I had to write about her. I’m including a link to its creation below. The piece of artwork itself is titled The Mystery of the Hereafter, although over the years it has been given the name of “grief” by those admiring its craftsmanship and perceived meaning.
Upon reading its history, I did find myself on the journey that one takes through grief, to that hereafter. It is different for us all, yet it is all very much the same (which lends to the male/female fusion the artist depicts with this piece) It hasn’t a map, it hasn’t a clock, nor does it have a definitive destination. We struggle, we grieve, all of us. Yet we survive. Often, we come out on the other side with a knowing, a new sense of strength, of purpose, of courage. Grief, that delicate five letter word, has the power of change, of acceptance, of growth.
Without ruining the story behind its creation for you, the romantic in me very much came alive as well. A breathtaking moment and an honor to be able to tip-toe into the life of two souls now since departed.
Thank you for taking a moment to read this piece. If you find a fondness for funerary art as I do, you can find more of my images in my gallery here.
images of “Grief” taken from Rock Creek Cemetery in Washington DC. Sculpture created by Augustus Saint-Gaudens and listed on National Register of Historic Places. To read more about its elusive history read on…
*featured image taken on a foggy morning walking the grounds of Belle Grove Plantation, birthplace of President James Madison.
this soul hums
beneath the tree
beneath the tree that made me see
see this me beneath the tree
where my soul hums
where it is free
where it is meant to be
beneath the tree