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(last edited Apr 01, 2009 10:44AM)
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Mar 31, 2009 08:36PM
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The Logic of Today
The doctor asked me
How will you pay?
You have no job – English you say?
So you're going to teach?
No, I need
To write, can't you see?
I need to be free.
He then shakes his head
And writes a prescription
Most certainly mourning
My hopeless addiction
I too shake my head
And want to redeem his
Childhood dreams and
All he was cheated
Poor feeble minded
Trapped in their blindness
Unable to see
The need for fulfillment
Unable to breathe
The beauty of purpose
The blind lead the blind
So they say, yet I pray
I will not succumb to
Its logic today
Loved this! I know the feelings.
Mod
And they look at you like they're thinking "can't you do something useful?"
I really like it. The rhythm is good. Me likey. It reminds me of this Marge Piercy poem that I am a particular fan of these days...:For the young who want to
Talent is what they say
you have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed. Beforehand what
you have is a tedious
delusion, a hobby like knitting.
Work is what you have done
after the play is produced
and the audience claps.
Before that friends keep asking
when you are planning to go
out and get a job.
Genius is what they know you
had after the third volume
of remarkable poems. Earlier
they accuse you of withdrawing,
ask why you don't have a baby,
call you a bum.
The reason people want M.F.A.'s,
take workshops with fancy names
when all you can really
learn is a few techniques,
typing instructions and some-
body else's mannerisms
is that every artist lacks
a license to hang on the wall
like your optician, your vet
proving you may be a clumsy sadist
whose fillings fall into the stew
but you're certified a dentist.
The real writer is one
who really writes. Talent
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire.
Work is its own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.
Marge Piercy
Mod
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire."
What exactly is her view on talent?
Phlogiston \Phlo*gis"ton\ (fl[-o:]*j[i^:]s"t[o^:]n; 277), n. [NL.,
fr. Gr. flogisto`s burnt, set on fire, fr. flogi`zein to set
on fire, to burn, fr. flo`x, flogo`s, a flame, blaze. See
Phlox.:] (Old Chem.)
The former hypothetical principle of fire, or inflammability,
regarded by Stahl as a chemical element; it is now known to
be nonexistent.
[1913 Webster + PJC:]
Sooo. is talent now nonexistent?
fr. Gr. flogisto`s burnt, set on fire, fr. flogi`zein to set
on fire, to burn, fr. flo`x, flogo`s, a flame, blaze. See
Phlox.:] (Old Chem.)
The former hypothetical principle of fire, or inflammability,
regarded by Stahl as a chemical element; it is now known to
be nonexistent.
[1913 Webster + PJC:]
Sooo. is talent now nonexistent?
Talent is what they sayyou have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed.
Mod
I took it to be a poem about having all of those things... talent, genius, etc. etc. but having it seem not to "exist" until recognized externally by the world... i.e. :every artist lacks
a license to hang on the wall
... so how do they, or the rest of us, know they're an artist? Not until the work is done. But the real beauty of being an artist is in the act of creation. Putting your babies out there in the world to be recognized by others shouldn't be the main point. At least, that's how I took it.
And since I'm still creating myself, with no external success other than the encouragement of other writers, it resonates pretty well with me.
Mod
While I read your post, the image of my daughter came to mind. She held up a painting with a big smile, saying, "Look what I made!" And I recalled the hours I spent in my childhood bedroom drawing and writing, afterward, running up to mom and dad for approval. But the best part wasn't in their comments. Not really. (I knew they would say they liked it no matter what.) The best part for me was during that creative process. That time alone to daydream and explore.
And you're right, recognition (or even writing to please an audience) should never be more important than the simple act of creating.
Mod
Mod
Stifled
Teacher said we had to write
A paper on our dad
So I followed him around
Sit down
Be quiet. Not Right now
Why are you whining?
Stop That
Momma said
Listen to your daddy
Spank your daughter Sammy
Her head is in the clouds
Be quiet. You’re not allowed
To speak your mind
My husband said to stop it
Why are you crying and
Hugging your knees?
I told you to stay home
I told you
To leave me alone
My daughter said
Why can’t I?
I smiled and said
You Can
My boyfriend said
You’re beautiful
Tell that story again
Some of my poems-By Frances AyersAs Old As The Sea
Deep and mysterious
With an endless roar
Lies the ancient sea
With its’ mystical lore
Eternal,boundless,Sea
What creatures you hold
You harbor such secrets
Rich stories you’ve told
Both complex and moody
In storm or breeze
Showing a Clear blue face
Man sails across with ease
Deep within its depths
Lay cradle and grave
A final resting place
For the seafaring brave
From Sorrow to Acceptance -By Frances Ayers
On sorrows'wings I journeyed to a land where I had never been.
Each loss was undiscovered country,landscapes I had never seen,mountains I had never climbed.
I had taken a journey past familiar landmarks I missed, and memories that were past.I had buried the familiar stories and neglected the happiness,which lay buried deep beneath the earth,only now and then pushing to the surface.
I drank from bitter springs and sat among the weeds,neglecting to seperate them from the flowers.
Beheld only the sunsetting but forgot the beauty in each new day.
When I had shed enough tears,I remembered the laughter echoing in the valley and heard the birds chirping a new song.
I saw the sun reflecting on the water.
and instead of weeds,I saw flowers. Where there were empty patches of dirt,I saw seedlings and the possibility of new beginnings.
What The Spring Knows
The Spring knows to wait its’turn
To sparkle after the winter dread
And burst forth with life anew
Reviving nature long since dead
First she’ll bring forth the flowers
Then she’ll awaken blades of grass
As she slowly increases the hours
A gift to man and all living things
She’ll impart a fragrance so inviting
As flowers bloom by her hand
The fragrant smell of the springtime
Spreading quickly through the land
Birds soaring across the sky
Echoing such a pleasant tune
With Spring as their conductor
Flying underneath the moon
For Spring knows she must finish
and complete the task of natures birth
Giving the task over to summer
To refine and prune the entire earth
A Patient Time
A time for waiting,a hibernation
Before we follow through on dreams
Careful planning,with determination
Putting away half baked schemes
No day or night is ever wasted
Patience builds slowly day by day
The fruit of forbearance is soon tasted
Sweet as honey where we lay
Suddenly we are engaged in life
Our souls’desire reaches out
And wraps its lasso around the moment
Discarding all our useless doubts
Erotic Fantasy On A City Bus
Vacous eyes staring across the way
Becoming lost in my fantasies and lust
Dreaming up scenarios to escape the day
Escaping boredom on this city bus
I focus on him slithering in his chair
Feeling a desire and longing to touch
Avoiding his glance,he is unaware
of how I desire him,so very much
Suddenly,the bus comes to a halt.
Seemingly occupied,I miss my street
I sprint to the exit,It's all my fault.
Glad to be away from all the heat.
