Naturally

Weary body finds a bench
While my mind finds little rest
Listening watching probing

Wondering pondering why
Souls spinning ‘round like bees
Rarely settling always searching

Mind whirling questioning why
Like dogs the greater one
Tries fucking the smaller from behind

Sitting trying to listen about
Tired of watching
But can’t help noticing

Subterranean urban sprawl underfoot
Worker ants scrambling for scraps
Trembling at passing feet

Pebbles clatter wheels kathump
As sneakers scuff and skateboards glide
On bricks and stones and stuff

Hearing the leaf kiss the bricks
The wind whispering autumn
Head panning eyes gaze witnessing the trees

Can’t help noticing
Defective trees silly Ts
A girl with an umbrella in the sun

Statue in the park yard
Strangely looks like shrapnel
Equine statue nearby staring

Of all the sounds
I hear no birds no song
Am I listening?

Of all the sights
I see no eyes no faces
Am I looking?

Wondering pondering questioning why
Consistent inconsistencies
What is reality what is a lie

Weary mind finds little rest
My soul finds little peace
Naturally

Am I a Poet?

Am I?

During my first week in an American literature class, the professor asked the group of students if there were any poets in the class? I paused. I did not respond. I did not have an answer . . . My silence spoke for me, as far as the instructor was concerned, assuming that the answer was "no."

I am accustomed to people asking me if I write poetry, if I read poetry, or if I study poetry. I do not recall ever being asked if I am a poet. The instructor proceeded to read a poem that was assigned for the day, as the impetus for his question was to tap a student to read instead (should that student be a poet). Shortly after he began reading, I felt somewhat ashamed.

I was not attempting to avoid volunteering (as I love to read), and I was not attempting to avoid participating. As the instructor reached the half-way mark of the poem, I continued my internal debate, trying to answer the question: am I a poet? My shame was not necessarily indicative of having not answered the question truthfully or straightforwardly. My shame was attributed to my self-doubt.

Had the instructor asked me if I wrote poetry, read poetry, or studied poetry, my hand would have instinctively been raised. Yet if I do study, read, and write poetry, the answer to the question should be obvious, and by day's end my mind was clear. The answer will come much easier in the future (and with pride), should someone ask me if I am a poet.

I am.

-Dave

Remember

Sky of blackness and sorrow ( a dream of life)

Sky of love, sky of tears (a dream of life)

Sky of glory and sadness ( a dream of life)

Sky of mercy, sky of fear ( a dream of life)

Sky of memory and shadow ( a dream of life)

-Bruce Springsteen (2002)

Define Poetics

I don't know if I can . . . even now . . . when I have been immersed in this thing called poetry for over a year, I wonder if I know what my poetics are or poetics in general. The definition of poetics seems so elusive and yet something that should be so easy to grasp. Given my previous poetic missives, my personal poetics seemed obvious. Is that all there is to my poetry though?

Do I define my poetry, or does my poetry define me? When my current motives have run their course, when my demons have been sufficiently exercised, what becomes of my poetry . . . my poetics? I would like to think that poetry holds a deeper meaning for me.

I look forward to continuing my education and my poetry writing. Perhaps I will find the answers to my questions during this time before more questions pile up. Who knows? Maybe the answers will find me when I'm not looking.

Thanks for opening a door, Jodi . . .

Cheers all . . .

-Dave