As I delve deeper into the world of writing I find myself in a state of perpetual transmutation. Each evolutionary stage brings me into focus, offering the clarity of who I am beneath the bullshit and bravado I don everyday.
Poetry has this way of demanding I ditch the crap and get real. Poetry settles for nothing less than my purest voice, my primal grunt, freed from pretension, protection and presentation. Poetry needs to be spoken from the solum of my soul and the denuding of writing with such provocative language results in experiences that are as rapturous as they are torturous.
It shapes me. Coaxing mud with fingers deep in my clay, pulling me to be something, anything, other than this lump of dirt and water bereft of beauty. I tolerate the pressure of its pull but, just when I think its done, that I’ve found my shape, it smashes me. Once again I’m scooped up and put back on its wheel, slicked and spinning, as poetry crafts me anew.
And at times I just want to scream at it to leave me alone, stop stirring my mud, let it settle for fuck’s sake! I can’t see where I’m going!
Poetry says, “that’s the point, close your eyes and enjoy the ride.”
But it doesn’t stop there. Once Poetry has fully violated my being it allows me to dress again, knowing I’ll choose clothing that accentuates my fullness and enhances the sensation of fabric on still-raw skin.
It whispers “remember me” and I do.