Poetry and Other Ideas

Writing poetry, except poems that erupt unexpectedly and inexplicably from one’s mind, often requires much deeper thought than simple narrative language.  When poems are being written, especially poems that use words sparingly, they ask us to try to strip away all but the essence of meaning. Fewer words amplify the poem’s core focus; each word then strives to be emotionally intense or thought-provoking or both. I know (or think I do) these things. But I rarely seem able to use that knowledge to the benefit of the poems I write or attempt to write. One of my favorite lines from Leonard Cohen’s music is this piece of poetry from the song, Sisters of Mercy:

If your life is a leaf that the seasons tear off and condemn,
Let them bind you with love that is graceful and green as a stem.

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I woke late this morning, after a few false starts at 3 AM, 4 AM, and 5 AM. My store of energy from yesterday has not disappeared, but it has diminished so far today. Still, we took another short walk this morning, perhaps a touch more distance than yesterday but the same time…in minutes. If I could kick myself, I would; I should have forced myself to move around more during all the months mi novia has encouraged me to get some exercise. It is no longer optional; I have finally consented to using a cane—one I will try to carry habitually until I have restored my frittered-away strength.

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From the night, his solitude, the poet finds day and starts a diary that is lethal to the inert. The dark landscape yields a dialogue.

~ Salvatore Quasimodo ~

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Yesterday afternoon began with an injection at the Friday-only Village office of my oncologist. Later, a friend came over and the three of us sat and talked over drinks for a couple of hours or so. We don’t have friends over often enough; it would be more frequent if I weren’t concerned about being fatigued. After watching 2 or 3 episodes of The Fall (a series from 2013 available from Britbox, with Gillian Anderson and Jamie Dornan), I went to bed later than usual but woke up as noted.

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Why am I recording so much day-to-day minutia? I realized a few years ago, after writing a daily “journal” of sorts for two straight years, that reading what I had written—about what I had been thinking and doing—was personally interesting to me. Skimming past posts often draws from the recesses of my brain memories that I might never have encountered, had my own words not reminded me. I feel compelled to write such a reminder as this from time to time, just in case another visitor drops by and skims a few posts…possibly encountering these words and learning why many of my posts are so godawful boring. The likelihood is that posting here, instead of on my own computer, will be more likely preserve what I’ve written; I’m apt to lose thumb drives and fail to properly copy full hard drives. I hope GoDaddy and WordPress are more reliable than I.

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Memory…is the diary that we all carry about with us.

~ Oscar Wilde ~