Su’s most recent blog is thought provoking. Please, read it! Among other things, it calls into question the assumption which poets often make on what is deemed common knowledge.
Now, it got me really pondering what we relay in our verses. I was thinking about the... responsibility?... that poets PUSH onto the readers. Poetry, to me, is meant to be … streamlined. Explanation shouldn't be inserted into a poem, the way some poets force rhyme, sacrificing art for clarity.
If one reads about deep sea diving it should read as the experience of the diver, not as a step by step guide on how to put on the scuba gear.
When a 13 year old reads
Flander's Fields and has no concept of war and its toll, then that youngster must be given the background in order to understand the poem.
We all must have enough of a glimmer to "get it." Sure, some things are universal: love, pain, longing, forgiveness, truth, food and sleep and regret...
And yet I believe everything, all life’s experiences, merit the ability to be preserved, celebrated or lamented, in poetry.
EVERYTHING.
So, where does that leave the poet?
FOOTNOTES!
Please, if I haven’t lost you, read this poem:
Embroidered Dreams
Embroidered dreams pierce one long night,
Your silken floss pulled its invite,
Needles prick the small child in me,
Haunted by shadowed tapestry,
Those knots you made of dark and light.
I watch your hands, so pale and slight,
Lift and plunge with thin strands of white,
Before dawn breaks my heart I see
Embroidered dreams
I sit at your feet, so contrite,
While frayed threads are tugged much too tight,
Each stitch that you left holds snugly,
But what you shaped longs to rip free,
All comes undone and now I write
Embroidered dreams
This is a
highly personal poem.
I posted this on soup, entered it into a contest and received some lovely comments in regards to its language.
Now, what this poem is about…
I am dreaming of my mother who was bipolar, at the time called manic depressive.
She loved to embroider and passed this hobby down to me. As a young girl, I often would just sit beside her and watch her motions, fascinated by the process of stitch and knot. Embroidery is an art.
Her condition was hidden from me and I did not understand her mood swings, often violent and frightening. Her emotions were complex and engulfed her family.When manic--- when she was happy--- oh, she was delightful… de-light-filled. Engaging, captivating, sweet and loving. She was a petite, pretty woman with patrician features. Her hands were doll like, small but with long, dainty fingers.
Then there was my ‘other mother.’ Her anger was terrifying. After trying to kill my father on her 45th birthday, she got drunk and hung herself with an electric cord in a stairwell. I got the call just before dawn. I was devastated by the news. I was there to see the body bag rolled out on a gurney. I went through her things and donated them to the Salvation Army. I was a teen. It took over 25 years to let go of guilt for not being able to help her.
I loved and still love my mother, regardless of what transpired, the rage, occasional beatings, and the things which she said to me that no child should EVER hear. Decades after her suicide, I still miss her. I battle with memories, try to hold on to the dear ones while letting the horrific ones go. Mothers MOLD us as children and as adults we are apt to examine, closely, who we have become, who we truly want to be.
Bipolar mimics the movements one uses to embroider clothe. Up and down. Down then up. It pierces. The thread can seem pretty at times, frayed and wrought at others. One needs to see the whole picture, looking at it from only the front shows only one side. Turn it around. See the workings, the knots, the frayed ends…
Now, if you have time, please, read my poem again, perhaps a tad slower.
What do you see now?.
What do you know now of its heart?
Embroidered Dreams
Embroidered dreams pierce one long night,
Your silken floss pulled its invite,
Needles prick the small child in me,
Haunted by shadowed tapestry,
Those knots you made of dark and light.
I watch your hands, so pale and slight,
Lift and plunge with thin strands of white,
Before dawn breaks my heart I see
Embroidered dreams
I sit at your feet, so contrite,
While frayed threads are tugged much too tight,
Each stitch that you left holds snugly,
But what you shaped longs to rip free,
All comes undone and now I write
Embroidered dreams
Thoughts? Fire away!
And please read Su's blog! VERY INTERESTING!