The naked truth is that I wish my poems could boast the same stark honesty of Francesca Woodman's photographs. There is so much power in them and the clear feeling that she is weaving a story in every single snapshot. Unhinged doors, thresholds leading to everywhere and to nowhere, tightrope walker kind of poses, apparent oddness winking at surrealness, scattered debris, cracked mirrors, objects mingling with bodies and her Self. Francesca--whether naked or not--leaves her mark, her trail of personality throughout the whole scene. All her shots are still yet vibrant means of self-assertion. And yes, she is becoming my disquieting Muse.
How very sad to wake up to discover that another poet has passed away. I have always been very fond of Gil-Scott Heron. He was a great revolutionary soul, but most of all he was an amazing writer. I was tempted to post his so famous "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised", but I will post his wonderful "Winter in America" instead. Now this is what I call a poem!
Four or five months ago I started rereading my poems because I thought it was high time to send some out to magazines. To my surprise, I remember distinctly being overcome by a sense of discomfort about everything I had written. Some of it was barely acceptable to me. Yes, there was sentiment in my poems, but I realized somehow that I lacked something.
What was I lacking? After pondering over it I concluded that there was no purpose in my lines. No sense of direction. No message. I was mostly writing poetry for poetry's sake. So, I started giving a different shape to my ideas and writing poems with a more distinct edge. Or, so I believe. I felt I had to write about the "hic et nunc", the here and now, the present times.
I'd love my poetry to be like a torch as Jean-Paul Sartre suggested in the following quote: "every age has its own poetry; in every age the circumstances of history choose a nation, a race, a class to take up the torch by creating situations that can be expressed or transcended only through poetry."
Several of my poems have been rejected. But, two of my poems have been accepted and published by Zouch Magazine lately. There's hope. I shall fare forward.
I often compare writing lines to forging. It's a tough work that needs three essential elements: darkness, strength and sparks. If you never read Seamus Heaney's "The Forge", you probably should. That poem does capture the essence of poetry making. Where is my anvil? Where is my hammer? It's time to smite some words...