Let There be Light

16 Replies

Sometimes, to get to that authentic part of ourselves where poetry resides, we have to illuminate some dark corners.

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Let There Be Light


My mind is a growling dog.
While I stew and fuss,
fulfilling lists,
she jumps the screen door,
beckoning.
Rude me, to turn my back
on the only playmate
who wants to play
the same games I do
every day, every hour,
because I fear that initial
plodding through silt
page after page
in search of the stream
of words.

Sometimes boredom
yawns so wide
that I have to enter it,
to wander its inner closet
where for decades
only cobwebs
have stirred.
In some dark corner
where I spank the dog
or search the bedside table drawers
of a lover called out at midnight,
I find the river’s source,
but then
the phone
rings and I’m off
gathering crumbs from a forest path,
leaving lost children
stranded in their own story.

Stray puppies—I collect every one,
wild orange funnel flowers
and guava
washed in an afternoon kitchen
just before the invasion
of five o’clock sunlight.
All of them I carry back
to hidden places
to rub against each other
and ignite
into the language of this place
where life goes in,
plays dress-up,
but emerges
nude,
like poetry.

 

If you’ve been following me for four years, you’ve seen this one before. The prompt word today was authentic.

16 thoughts on “Let There be Light”

  4. janebasilblog

    I’m glad you pulled this out of your archives, or I would have died never having read these exquisite lines:

    In some dark corner
    where I spank the dog
    or search the bedside table drawers
    of a lover called out at midnight,
    I find the river’s source,
    but then
    the phone
    rings and I’m off
    gathering crumbs from a forest path,
    leaving lost children
    stranded in their own story.

    Your rhyming poetry is accomplished, but this poem displays this extent of your talent.

    Like

    Reply ↓
    1. lifelessons Post author

      Thanks, Jane. Sometimes I feel guilty republishing things I’ve written before, but then I realize there are things I’ve written long before I had many followers and I give myself permission to run them again. Many of them I don’t remember, but this one has had some revisions over the years and I did remember it…one of those that leaves me feeling vulnerable every time I read it which is how one should feel, I think, when reading their own writing. Otherwise, what is the purpose of writing?

      Liked by 1 person

      Reply ↓
      1. janebasilblog

        I don’t think I’ve ever really asked myself that question – I just write.
        I read somewhere on WP that to feel vulnerable is a positive thing. I wish I could find that post again – I’d like to re-read it.

        Like

        Reply ↓
      1. koolkosherkitchen

        The image is phenomenal; it expresses the nature of poetry precisely. A great Russian poet once wrote that “to be a poet, one must dip his quill in the blood of his wounded soul” (not an exact translation – I am rephrasing, but the image is there). Your metaphor is on the same level.

        Liked by 1 person

        Reply ↓

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