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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Green Peas at Stake #405937 added February 10, 2006 at 5:19pm
Restrictions: None
You and I: to my reader
You and I
(to my reader)
I perch in front of the keyboard,
to the tune of a whiny husband,
and try to maintain the habit of
my ostensible soap opera,
the object of my obsession,
if not the tiresome kind,
while I extract images and shop
in my twenty-four market
for buried subtexts,
inspiring syllables,
and verbal daredevilry.
Predictably, at the first flash
of eye contact with you,
my words, amplified and panicked,
rush to the checkout counter
self-conscious of their own rattling,
their lungs collapsing without hope,
when fantasy worlds end up
stranded
and miracles don't collide.
Though I fear your yawning's trauma,
I imagine you.
With your delicate jaw-line bent,
you pout your lips;
you complain of blurred vision
from the scavenger hunt on screen;
and you shrug your shoulders
at the drama of my obscurity.
Then your eyes catch the ice pinnacles
outside your window,
and you take a sip from your hot tea,
which coats your displeasure
like a warm blanket,
giving you solace
for mocking me.
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© Copyright 2006 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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