Mythos & Marginalia

2015 – 2025: a decade of days


  • sankalpa

  • words are waiting

    Afternoon by Dorothy Parker

    It’s not what you read, but what you see, that goes to the core of what you will believe.

    I once read a quote where an eight-year-old described poetry as something “where they don’t use all the page” Over the past couple of days I’ve read quote upon quote, a few poetic philosophies, and an inane pseudo-essay including obviously misunderstood academic terms, explaining what poetry really means.

    Nothing I have read is as accurate as the child’s description.

    Poetry does, undeniably, require space to breathe on the page. Sometimes, when properly done, only a few words are required to present the poet’s wit, wisdom, or worth. Although it is not simple, poetry is involved and too many people are determined to make it complicated.

    Truly, poetry is more than words on a page. The craft, art, and undertaking of poetry goes beyond language, and it does so with more accuracy than any other written form.

    If words were simply words; love songs would sound like streetcar alerts, love letters would be as romantic as minutes from a board meeting, and a poem would read like ingredients on a cereal box.

    Words, indeed, have a meaning (some words have more than one) but even the description of a word does not define the meaning of a poem. Each word has an essence, and a backbone, with sentiment, soul, emotion, and memory stuffed inside. A poem takes these words and gives them space to resonate.

    Poetry can heal or poetry can hurt. We read the words and we respond.

    Yet, there are people who look distractingly deeper at poetry and, most times, complicate the process. They study the metrics of the meter, confuse the cadence, look for implied imagery, and search for the metaphor instead of the meaning.

    This practice shows little regard for the poet who has already taken sufficient time to work through the mechanics of language and the moral or message, taking into account catastrophe, context, and heartbreak, stanza size and line break, and the politics of the atmosphere.

    By the time a poem is presented, the poet has already struggled with the format, whether it is an orderly sonnet or set out in a measured stanza. Even free-form involves an acceptable purpose.

    Over and above the poet’s intentions, a poem speaks for itself. It just happens.

    Poetry does not take words at face value, yet it does not beg for description, interpretation, or even attention. All it asks for is endeavored understanding.

    Your understanding may not, or will not, be the same as the writer, or that of the person sitting beside you on the bus, or another soul halfway around the world.

    That’s good. It’s more than good, it is right. Everything else on the planet is so set in its way (even as we evolve or disintegrate), that so much seems too consistent. Except poetry.

    Poetry needs to be consistently unpredictable so that we can receive it in the mood or the moment. It should be comforting to know there are words waiting that will accept the way you see them, or feel them, or believe them.

    As soon as you have to study a poem it becomes a chore instead of a charm. There is no is no risk/benefit analysis required of poetry, don’t go looking for it.

    I read a lot of poetry; far more than I write. Each year I take a volume of a celebrated, “classic” dead poet and, for the entire year, devour the work one poem per day (and some days even more). Last year it was Wordsworth, this year Emily Dickinson.

    I’ll absorb, I will react, I will reread and recite, but I dare not call it study. If I call it anything, it is appreciation; and it may not even be that. And my reading is not limited to only those volumes, nor is it limited to treasured bards of years gone by. I’m still cherishing the recent work of a woman who is very much alive, and there is always a book of a recent, or lesser known, poet in my day bag. It might even sound corny, but I breathe poetry. Inhale and exhale. It’s just what I do.

    I’d encourage you to do the same. Armed with a poem, you’ll be better equipped to take on the world. By avoiding the news (fake or foolhardy) for 10 minutes a day, or stealing a few moments away from text books, bible study, or gossip pages on your mobile device, you will better understand the human condition.

    Try it. A poem a day, every day. There’s even an app for that and it’s free, functional, and quite enjoyable.

    Just read it. Leave the analysis to sales reports, tax returns, and political maneuvering, and instead be moved by the writing. Words are important.

    Poetry matters; let it speak to you, and for you.

  • I Can Smell Spring

    Today’s rain washed away most 
           of the evidence of winter.
    The water has spilled over the river’s banks
           but is receding.
                                        The air is fragrant
           with the change of season.
           Maybe it is because the dust has settled for a bit
           but I could smell spring as I walked the streets.
    At one point, this afternoon, it was like nighttime
           in the middle of the day,
                                         the windshield wipers kept time
           to the rhythm of life.
    This evening, however, just after the sun had
           disappeared altogether, low-lying clouds 
           hovered just above
           and in patches.
    Stars shone through the clouds
           like freckles on a lover’s skin, peeking out of the 
           crisp sheets.
                                  Spring brings optimism
           and hope.
    You hear people on the streets again,
           they too are pleased.
           Just wait for summer.
                                 I can feel peace,
                                                                can you?

    Image: Wet Prairies
    Artist: Steve Repa – 1977

    Almost 20 years ago, in a journal, I wrote this for my daughter. The early spring of then
    evades us now; perhaps soon. Seasons may change, but poetry remains, as does optimism and hope.

  • misinterpretation

  • a knowing unknown

    unforeseen shard of fuchsia,
    fibril against the monotony
    of the day.
    fleeting
    before the ashen dome
    shuts
    for the night.
    just enough to satisfy, a
    need for brighter landscapes.
    traces of optimism,
    or hope,
    just enough.

    interior lights pressed into action,
    exhaust spews into the damp chill
    of the city.
    swiftly
    as night falls, so too the
    mercury.
    last gasp of winter.
    seasons end, another begins, a
    need for warmth.
    we seek optimism.
    or just
    enough hope.

    cold dark thoughts relegated to
    the intricate concealed wrinkles
    of the mind.
    painfully
    we accept the totality of our loses
    hopefully
    forging new perceptions.
    new thoughts, and language, a
    stronger need.
    brittle optimism
    may be
    enough now.

    time changes, we too, in increments.
    the night inevitably lost to dreams
    of serious moonlight.
    quietly.
    did we not notice, do we not
    care?
    one less hour. one step
    closer, the prelude, a
    knowing unknown.
    perhaps warmth,
    optimism, or
    just enough hope.