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Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Dreams of a Poet




You know, I almost named this blog Dreams of a Poet, but frankly, I thought it was a wee bit pretentious for a rambling, disconnected collection of ruminations on the craft and work of writing poetry in the twenty first century. Sure some of my dreams make it into my poems, that is a given, in fact, I've written a couple of poems specifically about my own dreams, but today, I am looking at the Dreamworld itself, and how it touches and unhinges poets more so than the average joe.

Poets are different from novelists, or essayists, or even jingle smiths. It has been said that the difference between reality & fiction is that fiction has to make senses, but for poets, that is a secondary consideration. Poets are all about wrestling and wrangling exactly the right words into place, making them stand to attention, and wrapping them around ideas that are obvious after we state them, but not before.

But poets are special, in that they have a connection to the dreamworld, the gestalt, the land of Morpheus and Ovid. Poets tap into the madness, the chaotic swirl of what you want and what you cannot have, and poets have the ability to show you what you are missing.

But such vision, as it must, comes with a price...

Which brings us to....



Dreams of a Poet

The toiling poet drank deeply of the sap of sane pleasures,
He exulted mightily in the cold beauty of dead stars.
He built careless bonfires of his demented sorrows,
And laughed a lunatic’s mirth in the light of their glorious blaze.

He sipped with resistance of a heart’s questing romance,
Mixed love maternal, familial and parental into a sloppy stew,
Which he then ate, wiping it clean with the bread of betrayal
Before draining the Scriptures dry for each last drop of peace.

In his toil, he wrung magic from the winepress of human nature,
Stole raw gems from the deep mine of inner thought.
He scraped sweetness free from the honeycomb of innocence,
And left his muddied tracks in the minds of those who read his words.

Yet none of this was sufficient to ease his manic need.
Every dream of his sleep became a nightmare of missing pieces,
Every rhyme a dancing will-o-the-wisp of promise,
Haunting and prodding the poet to further trial, and ultimate error.

But when he finally cast aside all dreams, all ambition,
He found himself floating in the cool dark of sanctuary.
Guided by a tiny glimmer of light just within his grasp,
He found his soul, and it warmed him for all time.

Monday, January 25, 2010

Heat For A Snowy Winter's Night




Aahhh... Erotica

Any guy worthy of the name just loves it. And any woman who wants titillation without vulgarity knows that erotica is porn for discerning tastes, right?

Well, poets know ALL about erotica, we feel it in every line, every breath.

But writing erotica is difficult, to say the least. There is always a line we are afraid to cross. Maybe afraid is not the right word here, more like hesitant. Don't get me wrong, I've crossed the line, I am a champion line-crosser, ask my wife, I can recall asking my mom as a kid, "Hey, if I never cross the line, how the heck am I supposed to know where it is?", but when I am writing poems that I WANT to come across as erotica, and not porn, and not in-your-face-sexuality, I am hyper aware of the line.

Speaking of my wife, she is, of course, my muse and inspiration for most of my erotica. A woman of infinite passions and a healthy appetite for a good time, she suits my idea of what it means to be erotic - sexual without being overt, saucy without coming across as skanky, elegant enough to thrill me when she lets her desires rule her actions, and most of all, angelic enough to look at me and see me as I could be, while loving me as I am.

Which brings me to today's poem.


Heat For A Snowy Winter's Night



Welcome my rubicund weight
If you will,
Wrapping yourself beneath me
Grounding me while giving me wings.
Shifting skin and twin hearts echo
The fandango rhythm of heartbeats
Warmed by the embers of lusts
Without end.

Matched only by the fever
Of sweat-slick fingertips
Tangled in hair,
Grasping and pulling.

The skin beneath my lips
Tastes of salted raspberries
While my world winnows
To this moment, this life, this love.

Fire consumes thought
In love-stained teeth
Until my name growled in heat
Catches my passion for me.

Show me the power of your desire.
Give me what I demand.
I am as unrelenting in my gift
As you are.