Monday, March 28, 2011

Poetry of the Soul

Lately, I've been trying to write poetry (quite possibly because my fiction has all the life and joy of King Tut's mummy) and failing. I wrote a paragraph of prose, I put in some line was awful. I thought taking one poetry class during my freshman year of college meant I was a poet! But where was the beauty? Where the symmetry? Where the art?

And then I realized something.
I cannot do this alone.
It was as though a voice had spoken to me--a voice that was simultaneously inside me and surrounding me. It was of me and yet it was not me. It was wise. It was generous. It was true.

I was humbled, broken.

I needed someone greater than myself to take my hand and guide me across the bridge of Learning, through the rose garden of Inner Pain, and down the path of Great Art. I needed to turn from my self-absorbed fantasies and bow to an artist much stronger than I. And so I sought out the greatest poet of Western Civilization, who also happens to be my personal style and life-choices icon: Britney Spears.


Fire bottle:
I said, "My heart,
In the room."

Last rose:
I said, "My devil's cup,
Spinning poison--"

A slave:
May be young.
The road: laid out, in front,
Into the ocean, in the end,

My soul is bare
Through my veins.

Ehhh? Editing suggestions appreciated. Every bit of that poem is taken directly from a BSpearz smash hit (too many to cite). Who says pop music is vapid?

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You are truly great.