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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Secret Musings "We dance round in a ring and suppose,
But the Secret sits in the middle and knows."
-- Robert Frost
Stifled inside a melting house,
an icy woman
with a cryptic fright of ruins and antiques,
I rest my cane in bewildered cracks
to think, in consolation, of wrecked things
that become pieces of art
-- The Sphinx, Venus de Milo,
a shattered childhood, a broken vow--
when secret musings break through,
as beams of light stealing into a dungeon,
and I dream a vision, without vision,
a drink of water from the fountain of youth.
Suddenly in a fluorescent flush,
I’m young again, singing,
ringing like a wineglass,
red-flared, impetuous,
showy, loud, intense,
using lockjaw jargon, pompous slang,
rummaging, pillaging through
temporary tents in camps,
temporary games for flicking paper balls,
temporary hearts playing all the razzmatazz;
I rediscover, at every instant,
every secret hiding in little things,
giving myself permission
to attempt a redemption
for previous propriety,
my self-imposed drought.
Thus, when darkness coagulates,
smiles of solace dribble down my chin,
and in my rocking chair
behind the window-shade
I sit thinking,
“Secret musings are superior things
akin to left-over fortune cookies
gripped by years or fears.”
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© Copyright 2004 Joy (joycag at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
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