Poetry

Happens

throughout the early hours’ darkness. When everyone else’s asleep, drunk or making love, I crave a sacred silence.

I don’t look for something to write. I don’t think about the last sunrise on the beach.

All I have to do is surrender and flow.

It’s a courtship with my solitude – sometimes it plays a bit hard to get. I may arouse it with a random journal’s sentence:

“…my pink Asics need a wash.”

A couple of weeks ago my eyes fell on the 15 times I wrote “bite” on a page. I kept rolling with it.

I often produce poetry as soon as I wake up when my breath still smells dreams. What some would call nonsense is my playground. Usually, I spontaneously create from raw vulnerability. A lover I miss. A glimpse of tears on a picture of my dad’s forgotten sulk.

I love writing about

ordinary things. The dead pine tree branch down the road. Warm wool blanket touch. How do my lips remember a kiss on that bench in the garden? Vanilla ice cream is melting on a warm brownie cake.

Memories. That time my grandmother fed me warm milk on an olive green velvet duvet with macramé corners. 

Semantics

has little value per sé. One word or a sentence change so much from Chinese to French. Convention established for letting different populations cohabiting a shared planet it’s not poetry.

I love the music

played through inducted combinations, clashes, capitulations. Blank space breaks. Or the sense of dripping with syllables scattered on a slope.

We all can be poets with a good practice of phonetics. Loving Thesaurus more than our partners may help as well, regardless of the language we decide to write. I believe it’s about what we can stimulate. 

We all

should bring more poetry to life. Our flawed, human, unique, permanent mark.
From our soul to the surface.

Poetry has nothing to do with Social media. Or frills.

Even if it’s a post with Whitman’s leaves. I am sorry. It doesn’t call for a rushed, retentive act where our pupils’ swoop on signs stored inside a verse.

I’m a vintage freak.

We need discernment from a place of presence. We ought to grant it to our poets. And to the sleepy artist dwelling inside us.

 

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