Don't.
Get a job in a factory--
Stitching shoes, or
Making cars.
If you would like to be a poet--
Don't.
Take up thievery--
Stitch your lips shut, or
Lay down on the freeway.
You think you'll discover little gems of truth, toss confetti of beauty--
Well, you simple fuck.
If you would like to be a poet,
Don't make me laugh.
There are no wings, no wheels
To carry you into Heaven like a flung rose for God;
All you will produce is silence.
All that will come down is ash.
_____
You need some chocolate, perhaps? I hope you don't stop being a poet!
ReplyDeleteIf it's in you it will come out. No one else can make it happen; I've learned that the hard way.
ReplyDeleteYou get to choose to be a poet? Poets are born, not learned. That's what I believe.
ReplyDeleteShay! Say it ain't so!
ReplyDeleteIf they continue to walk the poet-path you know they are meant to without encouragement. Clever, Kitty!
Aloha from Hawaii my Friend!
Comfort Spiral
You have no choice in the matter, my dear Shay.
ReplyDeleteYou ARE a poet. No amounting of wanting or trying, or even factory jobs will change this.
You ARE a poet.
...a beautiful, silly, heart wrenching POET.
I suspect our Fireblossom is only reporting the words of doubt, not succumbing to them.
ReplyDeleteThe joke's on doubt anyway. You can't become an artist by shutting yourself in a room and thinking only about your art. Art is fed by that job in a factory, by the feeling you get when you lie down on the freeway.
The sooner you stop waiting for the wings and wheels, the sooner you arrive under your own power.
Gee, I thought I wanted to try a little poetry now and then. But I SURE DON'T WANT TO NOW!
ReplyDeleteI'll let you guys who are already poets do it--and the only times you make me laugh is when that is your intention.
I have a nice "girl-type" read: "goddess" flashlight which you should have, to throw onto some of that darkness. Light chases away darkness, of course artists and poets know that!
PEACE, kind Fireblossom-girl! And love also...
Hey, I found a beautiful red rose blossom, scented with FIRE...found on a rainy sidewalk. Wonder whio is the owner?
ReplyDeleteProbably some stewpid, factory-worker poet!
But since you are a poet, then sing your words, Shay, sing your words!
ReplyDeleteSecretia
One day I will stitch all my fingers together and find work putting something or other together and when I get off work I will lay down on the freeway and let what ever comes along run me over and squish the inside out and turn the right side upside down...again.
ReplyDeleteWell.... just call me Ashley than! ;) love it!
ReplyDeleteOnly if its trash ..
ReplyDeleteShay, this is so beautiful! This is where true poetry comes from: your aching heart. I've always said that writing and sharing one's poetry is akin to ripping your heart out and putting it on the street. And it's sure to become covered in tire treads....but it's better to put it on the steet than keep it inside, pristeen and untouched. Keep on keeping on. You're a fabulous writer. Love & Blessings!
ReplyDeleteNever stop being a poet, the world needs women with words so eloquent and lovely as yours.
ReplyDeleteThere are no wings, no wheels
To carry you into Heaven like a flung rose for God;
that line brought shivers to my body and soul...wow!!!!
Love you
g
Hey, poet! Did you just call me a simple fuck?
ReplyDeleteI've been called worse!
ReplyDeleteHate it when the muse is being a bitch and throws me under the bus too.
ReplyDeleteSucks dunnit?
You're so right, Shay, and yet you're also wrong... for you do "discover little gems of truth, toss confetti of beauty".
ReplyDeleteI love the pic... I see the rose as the poetry in the dark heart of the poet...
Don't stop writing!
ReplyDelete