Living the Life of a Poet

A poet’s life is different. Thoughts happen and they just don’t go away until they get put down into a poem. That’s the only way. What demands to be said could be a feeling, a surprise, an emotion, a confusion, or the intrusion of a character like Seamus MacDougall who came at 3 a.m. with his story. Being a poet means thinking about people, places, things, opinions, beliefs, emotions, feelings, and animals deeply enough to become one with them in the writing of the poem.

Here, you will find some raw thoughts, the way the soul likes to receive them. The mind struggles with raw, so often leaping into denial, in the midst of the smoke of the fire of the stream of consciousness.

Here’s one I wrote while trying to decide if the new running craze of some decades ago would be right for me–

Sedentary Sloth’s Soliloquy
To run, or not to run; that is the question:
whether ‘tis better on the streets to suffer
the storms and stones of suburban nature,
or to stay plump amid the sleek and the svelte,
and by sloth not increase them.  To tire, to sleep—
more; and rise late and not become prey to
cars and dogs and physical injuries
that runners are heir to?  ‘Tis a growing trend
devoutly to avoid.  To tire, to sleep-
to sleep, stay in my dreams:--ay, there’s the rub,
for in a sleep of aches what dreams may come
when I have limped from my fitness folly
must give me pause;  there’s the safety
that makes time in the tub more desirable:
for who would bear the pounding hurts of roads,
the bully’s wrong, the risk of robbery,
the pangs of hollered jeers, the awful dust,
the insolence of cars, and the taunts
the patient virtue of the runner takes,
when I myself might stress relief attain
with my leisurely bath?  What runners would
grunt and sweat along dangerous roads,
bear the risk of falling, or even death—
the slowly building suff’ring, from which pain
the idle sloth remains free, puzzles the will
and makes me rather bear the build I have
than to run to others that I know not of?
Thus road fear doth make cowards of a few;
And thus the noble need of resolution
is sickled o’er with a pale cast of thought;
and road runners of great courage and moment
are spared the burden of yet more runners
who would render their physiques less awesome,
and pale their renown as physically fit.

In another post, I will share with you the story of how poetry became my way of understanding
the twists, bumps and dark forests of life.
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One Response to “Living the Life of a Poet”

  1. Anastasia B Says:

    I certainly identify with this: “Thoughts happen and they just don’t go away until they get put down into a poem.” I used to write poetry for about a year and a half. Mostly when I was on missionary trips overseas. Then life happened, college, marriage, first child. I do hope to write again one day! My mother is a poet, she writes in Russian though. Come to think of it, you might like her blog, it can be translated into English with a click of a button. You can take a look at the page translated here: http://translate.google.com/translate?client=tmpg&hl=en&u=http://wisdombyte.blogspot.com/&langpair=ru|en

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