Saturday, March 26, 2011

More on Poetry

    You only get your first girlfriend once.  Mine twisted me upside down, flipped me backwards and stood me on my head.  I knew about poetry a little bit but she was pretty overwhelming, for a time my only every world.  I remember in college writing a million poems to her.  Slow mail days, I would receive one from her and write her six.  I was eager then too.  Those were the days when I wrote: poems and gibberish, short stories, love voodoo mist kinds of things.  Mostly then as I do now, trying to figure everything out, place meaning where there might be none.  It is strange the kinds of things we remember from our youth.  I can tell you of the day I met her.  I can quote conversation we had.  I remember ordering apple slices and wedges of cheese in a restaraunt and she was a Princess from another country at my side.
   I have saved the strangest things, bits and pieces from my youth.  I have all the old poetry, mine and hers
and reread them from time to time.  It is not with a longing or missing her, I understand that life goes on and we are far different people now, but I sometimes miss that boy that I was.
   I can't for the life in me remember exactly what happened and I have tried a hundred times to rediscover it.
I am pretty sure I didn't know it then.  Somehow we failed and lost a slippery hold, that happens.  She took with her my desire to write.  Now, almost forty-five years later I am digging amongst the ashes, piling cinder upon cinder in an attempt to create a fire.  If I can find that boy again, maybe now I can carry his hand and lead him to where he needs to be.  Aren't we all doing that in a way?  or trying to do it? or should do it but maybe we are not?
   Most of what I used to write is just plain garbage, like a fire gone amok, emotions tripped over contradicting descriptions, but I kept them as a journal, for one day I knew that I would like to know what I was.  Here is a poem I wrote 45 years ago:

The Painter

Capturing a moment in a gentle mist,
a simple canvas, lightly touched
pale blues and darker reds and
ivory colored lace
her skirt carried by the breeze.

Into lonely hours I paint continually
my hands and brush both heavy.
a moment more and face and hands
grow lily pink,
reflecting a caress of moon
along the strands of hair.

In her eyes, a little dark,
a blotch of blue waits for tomorrow
to complete the lake or pond,
as sleep is sinking, fills into my
bone, that I may dream and
she tease me out of thought.

                   April,'67 jac

Well, it is a poem and I won't explain it.  It could be anything you would like it to be, a chameleon poem.
You can find me HERE also


Barbra Joan said...

OMG Jerry, if anyone had ever written something like that to me.. !!! I would have been on a cloud...
You my friend are a magical being.. yes your a welder too. !
but even that is magical.. thanks for sharing... BJ

stonepost said...

Thank you Barbra, not sure where this will lead me other than forward.

Kay said...

Interesting post. I sometimes look at my own journals from long ago and the angst was palpable. I am sometimes embarrassed by the feelings spilled out on the pages. I think..I should just burn these..but I don't ..I guess I want to remember the pain and be happy I am beyond that. Recapturing that youth is not a goal for me!! But I do get that feeling sometimes of being a child on a sunny day, having time to myself as I daydreamed in reverie. When I remember snatches of those idyllic times I wish I recapture them for longer periods. It seems like a dream. Sometimes I sit in the sun, listening to birdsong and think I have traveled back in time..until the phone rings then back to reality I go! By the way..I too would have swooned at a poem written for me...Thanks for bravely sharing.

Clipped Wings said...

Very beautiful poem, Jerry. I've never had the desire to journal, I started one years ago when times were bleak. The only page I wrote was depressing to me, and after a few years I got rid of the otherwise empty book. It's all in my head though, and I guess that's become the main purpose of my write about my life...kind of like an after the fact journal. Life has been good, but a huge chunk of it has also been difficult; and I've never had the desire to rehash it much. I guess my blog is an attempt to put all that garbage in my head in its rightful place, but some trash will stay there forever, since my blog is read. But you know, Jerry, you're quite a romantic person, and I like that. It shows in everything you do.

stonepost said...

Kay, I don't think that I am trying to recapture my youth. Some once said that we should be on "nodding terms with the people we used to be", maybe that is all.
and, Clipped Wings, God forbid that I would ever meet someone from my youth! I would stutter and stammer for sure! Blogging is my journal now and my introduction to writing 101.

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rama said...

Hey Jerry,
Didn't you notice the most important thing of that time of your life:
Even in those early years you had the instincts of a painter, only difference was you painted with words, which was poetry, and now you paint with brush, so don't you realize that you have completed the circle. You are the same person, with the same passion for artistic things, only now you are more refined, and worldly wise than you were in your youth.
I am sure you would have nothing much to say to the boy of bygone times now, maybe he can be fun companion for you in your walk down memory lane. Am I right?

AutumnLeaves said...

Writing simply handles the spillovers of emotion, at least for me. But I can't wield the pen as you do Jer. I must say that when I think upon the things of my youth, I rather cringe. In fact, I cringe on thoughts of yesterday. Ei yi yi. At any rate, I've never been a fan of poetry but I sure think that was a beautiful piece of writing you did.