Lately, I’ve been writing hard, more professionally than years past, which means also a bit more mechanically. Some words are needed, so I crank them out.
GoodWordEditing.com (which I have tabbed as GWE in my browser) is one of my few places where I can still play. Play is so important. Like I’ve said before, this is not a subscribe to me kind of blog. I’ve thought of posts this week, I might write–about the twenty-two-thirty rule of engaging readers that I learned on Tuesday, about the scene and plot things I’m learning in my own writing, about how to carve out writing time when you have a family and a career and a church and dogs that need someone to throw the frisbee, about how to use tools like Plaxo to follow other bloggers, about how to use Twitter as a method of social note taking, even a spiritual analysis of Battlestar Galactica Resistance clips showing where that series does a good job of opening the door to think about faith and religion as something to be taken seriously.
Except for Battlestar Galactica, those things don’t feel much like play to me. Even Battlestar doesn’t feel as playful when I’m analyzing it for scene structure, character motivation, and theme.
But poetry is so useless, it’s only good for play. The movement of a poem isn’t going to take me anywhere in particular. I’m just here swinging with the words. Up and back. Up and back. Or maybe kayaking around Serenity Island at one of our city parks. (Yes, I live in heaven.)
And earlier this morning, I finally found this poem. Or I should say it found me. People kept sending it to me. Quoting it back to me. And I realized it was time to climb on the swing, time to get in the boat again.
In honor of my own occasional Poetry Friday, in honor of my recent comment on Becky’s blog, in honor of good friends and new friends who like poetry, in honor of God really, the original poet who (Howard Butt taught me) makes all of us into his poiema, his workmanship…
You can hear me read the poem out loud here. Or try the podpress player at the bottom.
Sometimes
Sometimes
images are
too intimate,
too desperate,
too honest.
Sometimes
reading is
a little death.
Sometimes
writing is too.
{ 10 comments }
Hmmm…Do you really think poetry is useless..or that play is useless too? Or is it more that poetry and play, when truly engaged in, defy any particular use… even though they may surprise us in the end with accomplishing things of great value.
L.L., don’t take my word for it. I’m just quoting Mr. Wilde.
My wife sent me a funny email, but I had to pass it on here. She said, “That poem was not very playful.”
Yeah. Well, it was for me! : )
Amy, poets have a strange sense of play. But you probably already know that firsthand. : )
I like
your
useless poetry.
Even if
it is
not
playful.
I know nothing, really, about poetry except that I enjoy it. Thanks for sharing your poem today.
Poetry may be useless on some level, but necessary. Sometimes we write drivel, but sometimes poetry condenses thought and emotion to its essence, and therefore makes it powerful.
I was asked recently by a fellow writer to pass along a few things I’ve learned. One of those things is that daydreaming is a good thing. So is yardwork and hiking and long drives to nowhere. Activities that engage the body only seemingly disengage the mind; sometimes, my mind is free to wander the world of my story even as my arms and legs are pushing the lawnmower around the backyard. That may not be fun to most people, but (shrug) I make no claim on sanity.
also
prayer
a little death
that makes room
in the heart
a place
for life
LL, Marcus,
I think I know what Marcus means.
Yes, poetry must be useless, in the sense that we Americans use that word. For me, poetry is pure writing. Just for the sound of it. Well, there is meaning but the sound is so paramount. In that sense, the poem is above use.
But of course, pure art has its uses, so you can’t ever say something is without use.
Marcus, do you know what the French phrase “little death” means? Did you intend that?
Don’t know if you did, but it works.
I knew. It was intended.
This poem of yours keeps rolling around in me, Marcus, for days now, a stone polishing something inside.
It’s play had great use.
Just thought I’d come back and tell you.
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