I believe poetry means what it needs to mean to the reader. I remember reading poetry while in college and listening to the professor dissect the work. Often I would disagree. I think if a reader takes from a piece something of value, something that might even help internally, then the piece has accomplished a service in that moment for that reader. Even if what the reader took from the literature was not what the author intended. This is simply my opinion.
When someone reads a piece that I’ve written and expresses their understanding of that piece, I appreciate their expression. Even if had nothing to do with what I was thinking while writing it. It doesn’t matter. Not to me.
I’m curious, do any of you also think about this?
Every time I open the curtains
I learn something new
from the same cluster of trees
growing outside my window.
Today, tomorrow, and always.
We saw the boy in the corner today-
It’s said that he placed a thought
where he might one day come
It’s said the thought he lay in the corner
Was ‘Tell life it can’t.’
And now we see the boy in the corner
with his thought having grown.
if you like it, share it.
I’m reading ‘As I lay Dying’ by William Faulkner and out of his pages comes this paragraph smashing me.
‘In a strange room you must empty yourself for sleep. And before you are emptied for sleep, what are you. And when you are emptied for sleep, you are not. And when you are filled with sleep, you never were. I dont know what I am.’
That stopped me in my tracks.
And the ‘dont’ was written exactly that way.
Except when born
Blanketed we were
Obsolete you may make us-
Lasting, a few will be
All that’s left finally free
For a long time he had forgotten that he was crazy. He remembered when- A friend told ‘her’ about another ‘him’ and being told about this helped him to remember that the two are one and the same. He wasn’t sure he should believe himself because he knows there can’t be two. It’s a bit like this- It’s dark and you feel a large stone. You sit on this stone. As you touch the stone you feel bits of dirt crumbling off. The dirt falls onto the ground and you’re no longer sitting on the stone. You’re now looking up. At another. The ground is your new home and above is a lie. It never happened. There was no stone and there wasn’t a ‘her’ and there isn’t any darkness nor any crumbling dirt. And there was one. -M. Taggart
It’s often said that nothing in life is free. I disagree, on many levels. Hell, going outside in a New England blizzard, is free and enjoyable. All one needs to do is get off the couch. WordPress is free. WordPress has given me an unexpected creative outlet that I’m thankful for. So, for what it’s worth, thanks WordPress. Thanks to you and to your daily post writers. Your ‘beep-boop-beep-boop’ functionality is different and fun. And while I often write in a morbid tone, that’s not what surrounds me.
That’s confusing, do we even understand. If you take, then you have. If you have, then it’s gone. We wonder where it came from. But, that isn’t a question. Not really. It’s here and you know. It’s a board and the dark. You were touching the board and you were talking to the dark. Now, both, would like to again.
Most of what I’ve written, I’ve done so while drunk. My drunk self tells my sober self to calm down. Then, my sober self tells my drunk self, calming down is just the beginning. -M. Taggart.