Thursday, March 31, 2011

In the Poet's Realm

"In the Poet's Realm"

by Virginia Knowles

In the poet’s realm today, almost
Lingering on the threshold yet unsure of my welcome
Meter and rhyme still bend not, bow not before my pen
I am not one who writes or thinks or lives in tidy rows
Yet I am as a stranger in a foreign land
Thirsting to hear my native tongue in a different voice
My ears quicken; in relief, I spurtle a reply
A cry to be heard and understood
In the communion of poets
In the creative conversation

For I have no wish to join the company of sharp-tongued prophets
The poets are my kindred, at least in my aspirations
Yet perhaps poets are prophets, too, of sorts
With gentle images of beauty or haunting tales of woe
Piercing the heart
Softening the soul
Lifting each to a deeper Communion and
A creative conversation with the Creator Himself
Who hears and understands
No matter how skilled the tongue or pen.


I wrote this back in February, on a melancholy day.  I don't even remember now what was going on right then.  Weeks later, I e-mailed it to a handful of friends who have poetic sensibilities.  I just found it again while looking for something else.

My friend Lisa replied, "I loved it!  My favorite lines: I am not one who writes or thinks or lives in tidy rows / Yet I am as a stranger in a foreign land. This might be why I feel such a kindred spirit with you ((hugs)).  Maybe God allows you to feel this way just long enough to reach out to others who feel like strangers among us.  I love when you just let the pen allow you to speak from your heart."

I do speak from my heart when I write.  It's just not always a jolly heart.  I do feel a stranger at times, like I don't quite fit in but I'd rather keep it to myself to make it seem like I do.  The ((hugs)) are always welcome.

So on this rainy, gray, blustery, thundery day, I decided to share it with the rest of you.   Maybe most of you won't "get it" but then again maybe it will somehow reach another heart today, if only my own.

Peace and poetry,


P.S. On a lighter note, I sort of coined the word spurtle for line seven, as a linguistic cross of spurt, blurt and chortle.  A poet, even an amateur one, is entitled to such liberties, I think.  My kids always tease me about making up new words, but I looked in a dictionary, and spurtle is actually an existing word with a different meaning dating back hundreds of years.  It is a Scottish cooking tool for stirring porridge.  There is even a Golden Spurtle championship.  And now you know.

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