Form Balloon, Red and Write

I like to fool myself as much as anyone. That is to say, I like to live. But I suppose writing poetry is my response to merely living for the purpose of living, as if living were in itself justification for all the wear and tear it causes oneself, and the pain it causes others.

For all that I accomplish or obtain, I know that poetry is a rhythm that will not be denied. I may not show it as I work, or tend family, church, but otherwise, whether inside or outside, a kind of narrative is playing out where I am attuned to what I have done and what is left undone. This effect or purpose is not unlike what we see in nature, the tree that stands there, year after year, while the effects of the seasons manifest themselves.

But in our case, for I am only one among many, the effect does not merely repeat itself to a predictable outcome. Or do I fantasize? Perhaps all this is very predictable. But no, I don't think so. Or at least it is not predictable in the sense that outcomes can be calculated.

I only know what I can say as one might repeat the melody of a song, one who is not particularly gifted in song or memory, but who did well at school and can carry a tune. Perhaps poets are capable of two things, in particular. Being able to hold for a serviceable time such feelings as the one described here, of separation; then, being able to allow these feelings words.

So, the rhythm, and the lyric. No less vital, no less susceptible to the color and nuances of the times.