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Tuesday, March 5, 2013

Fragmented (or Fermented?) Thoughts

'Wine is bottled poetry.' - Robert Lewis Stevenson


This is not the first time I have felt frustrated by the fragmented thought process of poetry. Where is the wonder and meaning in a poem that everyone delights in? It should be easy to understand given that the verses are anywhere from 1 to 5 words each. Even the words themselves sound beautiful so there must be some profound meaning in these disjointed riddles, right?

Perhaps I am too literal in my attempts to fathom any comprehension at all. But that can't be right. There have been poems that have spoken so loudly to me that my inner being is shaken.

At the pinnacle of my youth, I discovered a book of poems by my then and still beloved Jim Morrison. I was perusing a used bookstore with a friend of mine who shared in my bygone era infatuation of this deceased musician. Eager to delve into the personal world of his strange and mysterious short life, I waited until late at night when I could be alone with just my thoughts and my book. As I read his poetry, immediately I became frustrated with his words. What was he talking about? Was he on drugs? Well, yes of course he was on drugs, it was the 60's. Still, it didn't make any sense to me. Desperate to make some sort of connection, I closed the book and held it close to me and closed my eyes. I asked the spirits to show me what I needed to know. Then I opened the book and read a canvas of words that finally spoke to me. In fact, those words made so much sense to me that it couldn't have been just chance that I encountered them. It's true, those words of his. They described what happened to me the year I grew wings. I read the two poems over and over and pretty much memorized them. I marked the page in the book, copied them down in my journal, then put the book away, forever. Yes, that's right, forever.

Another time, the passionate love poem, Sonnett XVII by Pablo Neruda, peculiarly found its way to me just as I was in the throes of a love affair with the man I would eventually marry. I was reading a book of which I do not remember the name, when the author mentioned Pablo's name. Uncharacteristically curious, I looked him up. The first book I found was the 101 Love Sonnets. And you know the story from here. Of course I didn't read the whole thing. I just asked for guidance. The implication of Sonnett XVII was instantaneously clear as Pablo portrayed for me what true love was, in perfect fashion, what I couldn't put into words. As before, I copied the poem down and memorized those heart felt words. I bought Pablo's 101 Love Sonnets but was never again able to attain that same sense of discovery as I had with Sonnett XVII. Sadly Pablo ended up on the bookshelf next to Jim Morrison. Never to be opened again.

Of course, I've written my own poems*, few and far in between, and usually after a bottle of wine, in which case I would call these 'fermented thoughts'. And these may very well be the only time I can pretend I am ever so slightly poetic. I suspect that there are certain types of people - those who read, write and enjoy poetry and those who don't. It appears I am the latter, most of the time. I know I missed the boat on this one. Some may be aghast at my remarks and I mean no disrespect. I prefer complete sentences with punctuation and thoughts that don't leave me in conundrums searching for hidden meanings. It has become apparent that if a poem needs to speak to me, it will search me out and it will find me. For now though, I am content to leave the fragmented thought process in the capable hands of our world poets or at the very least on my bookshelf collecting dust.

"Poems" I have written but cannot be responsible for:


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