In the arms of a Lover called Poetry

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BeeJay
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In the arms of a Lover called Poetry

Post by BeeJay » Mon Nov 26, 2007 9:33 am

June 02, 2005
Category: Essay 755 Words /3300 Characters
Copyright 2005 Baru Gobira

In the arms of a lover called poetry

________ By Baru Gobira

By a turn of fate, a card stared at me. POETRY the upturned face beckoned in sensuous invitation. At 50, in love again, I embraced a mistress I must share, but could never leave. The jealousy of love, the anguish of inadequacy rushed through my veins like a junky on a permanent high. The waves of words spun in an orbit I scarcely understood. Some I could catch and pen them down, others forever lost in the ether, on a journey to outer space meandering slowly into the black holes of the literary void. As if in a dream words surfaced at odd moments, like an alien cadence of rights and wrongs. Its habitat my mind. The words were like puppets swinging uncontrollably in the hands of an inebriated puppeteer. A nod here, a smile there, a tear wiped, sweat swiped from the forehead, in momentary fear, the puppets hurriedly scripted their take on life. Was I just an observer or was it my life dancing on barren windswept cliffs.

I wrote feverishly lest I forget, these words are but visitors signing a guest book. Never parked for long in a poet’s heart. But the visions troubled me. Of childhood dreams I had long forgotten, of friends who seemed as if made of wax, of shadows that made a mockery of light and made me wear a veil to walk instep with them. Out of such mists the verse took shape. Once fixed in a line, I heaved a sigh of relief. The letters and their rhymes, words & their meanings, that were something special to me, became in time with wile and guile of punctuation, different in scope, when read by others. What was I to do at such vagrant disobedience. I wanted to “show” and they wanted me to “tell”. I was frugal as I drew images with words, for in a Confucian way, were they not worth a thousand words? Alliteration they said. Others declared it was just distortion. But I was no cameraman filing for the evening news. I was doing it for the sunset in eternity. To rhyme or not to rhyme or let it float and cartwheel or be like fleeting forms of free verse. That was the question. To be free from the bondage of hidden meaning. Saying what must be said in the economy of verse. But crafted with an eye for detail and an ear for the music of the soul.

Some said the lyrical quality is missing and I slowly restrung the emotional guitar. The notes, discordant at first slowly take on the glitzy jarring sound of a garage studio, recording a hit single. The song has no heart and where would I find a willing donor for a transplant. I delve deep into my innerself and listen to the words that sound like divine music to me. I write as it flows, the spellchecker is over worked, but I persevere. The stanza done, I read it sitting on the rocks, to the trees, the wind, the sky and the occasional passerby. In their progress the horizon dips into my verse and mingles with the words, that proudly sails into the sunset of my life.

The links and the continuity falter, as if drunk from too much nectar, the gods have been vending freely. The flow they say, the flow, must be smooth. I’m no carpenter to smoothen the edges. This trade too I must master before the pole star beckons and I must set sail. A fisherman spreading his net for words, the diver waiting in the darkness for the luminescence of pearls. The safety of the shore recedes, as I steer the next stanza on this journey of discovery of what great poetry must be.

In the stillness and beauty of the rolling sea, my mistress POETRY joins me on the ship’s deck. Will my verse come home to acclaim or like many, forever lie shipwrecked on the shores of Maine. I am the navigator, my mistress a hard slave driver, makes me row like galley slaves, to find the words of rare beauty and sustenance. But my back is gruesome, much pain have I seen. Tears mingle with the salt spray and spice of language burns the eye. Just when I’m about to give up, from nowhere comes a verse that’s in conflict with the style. I reflect and make an offering to the moonbeams. Satisfied they dance on the pages till it is forged into the templates of time. I awaken from a deep dream, exhausted but pleased, for I have slept in the arms of a lover called POETRY.

Copyright 2005 Baru Gobira
If the Universe was a little smaller , I may just be able to reach out to you. Copyright © 2009 Baru Gobira

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nekot
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Re: In the arms of a Lover called Poetry

Post by nekot » Wed Dec 05, 2007 9:30 pm

:crying:

BeeJay this is absolutely beautiful....breathtaking. Anyone who has been caught in this lover's arms knows of the sweat on the brow, the consternation, the elation, the magic.

A beautiful personification of poetry.

:bow:

~carol
~eloquently scattered~
nekot's tokens

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BeeJay
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Re: In the arms of a Lover called Poetry

Post by BeeJay » Thu Dec 06, 2007 8:19 am

Thank you Carol. Im happy you found it beautiful. ____BeeJay
If the Universe was a little smaller , I may just be able to reach out to you. Copyright © 2009 Baru Gobira

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BeeJay
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Re: In the arms of a Lover called Poetry

Post by BeeJay » Sun Jul 25, 2010 1:39 am

:bump:
If the Universe was a little smaller , I may just be able to reach out to you. Copyright © 2009 Baru Gobira

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heinzs
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Re: In the arms of a Lover called Poetry

Post by heinzs » Sun Jul 25, 2010 10:24 am

A worthy bump, Baru.

:thumbsup:
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