uno

Stepping out on a limb. I am fearless. I am courageous. I am me. Bold and Beautiful, my soul glow, my emotions plastered on the walls of my notebook, and my heart open to receiving anything new. Mind focused on dispelling limits, internal barriers, and external constraints.

And yet I don’t read my writings. Asked why I write. I don’t really read my words that spread thin and wide across blank minds. My belief and passion lies in the action of writing. The therapy of writing. The experience of putting thoughts and concepts into reality and emotion that transcend my beliefs and soul. And what if I am not the only one thinking this way?? How will I ever know? If I first cannot conceptualize my own thoughts, my ability to understand and be understood would diminish.

Writing is like painting mental pictures with the tips of your fingers. Slowly mapping out paths to victory, success, and pain. It’s like retracing all the coloring books, simulating life in the reverse and the forward. It is a plan of action, reflection and preparation. Writing captures images, literary photography through phrases, memorializing topics, exploring people, and paying tribute to history and legends. It is history rewound, fast forwarded, and paused for a glimpse into the surreal, reality, the artist, and the mind.

burning desire...

There is a burn in my soul. Silently I succumb to my bodies desire to release. a burn in my soul to let all the wounds, emotions, spirals of thoughts, and consciousness exhale. The itch supersedes any real life priority, expectation, or circumstance. It simply is the continuation of each breath. Moments of time captures in frames, second by second… I explode, having lost pieces of myself. Yet gained something even more valuable. Trembling, shaking with confusion, I no longer want to feel the need. Addicted to the concept of letting each letter roll of my tongue, drip down my heart and dive into my chi, only to infect every inch. An addict. Without movement, without expression…without visual thought. I believe I would perish. Soak into the concrete of every limit, every rule, every law created to redefine the meaning of life. I would crumble, into piece so small I would never be able to identify myself. It seems for with my attempts to catalog my presence, it simply only furthers my questioning. My desire to get free from addiction, only entices exploration. A wonder so great, and powerful, must be stopped. Calculating each move, I want to end this craving for more. Yet it’s strength increases exponentially. Constantly reaching a new high. Facing days alone, seeking block, and withdrawal. Profound blessings always come home. Thus the burn continues. Waking me in my sleep. Scratching at the doors of anxious creation and this is why I write.

Ars Poetica

If you are a writer.. or even a reader.. one should explore the meaning and historical value of "ars poetica".. a phrase that translates to the art of poetry... yet means so much more. how our actions when expressed, should actually feel like the expression.. writing about the beauty of poetry, or signing melodies about the love of each tune and voice..

here are a few links...

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ars_Poetica
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15222
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19947
http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Latin/HoraceArsPoetica.htm


and one of the most famous, and my favorite piece..

Ars Poetic
by : Archibald MacLeish ( read on who he is as well!)

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown --
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
*
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind --
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.
*
A poem should be equal to
Not true.
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea --
A poem should not mean
But be.

the last line be far is the most eloquent summary of what ars poetica is.. and should be.. a poem should not mean but simply be. the existence of its powers should magnify its greatness.. and one should honor it for being, instead of describing.. and that the description aligns with the reality.. like a literary comic book.. it is. real.

thanks. enjoy.