Ars Poetica

 I love to learn and to be informed. What is most intriguing for me is to question all that I have learned  using what new information I have at my fingertips. This poem called "Ars Poetica" comes from a style of poetry that questions the art of poetry, hence the Latin term. The Ars Poetica form of poetry is used  to question the basis of something so normal and routine using words. So this is what I've done.

ARS POETICA

How careful should we be of how we speak?

With all of language’s unwritten rules, should we even consider careful?

The audacity of lesser a figure to tell "top-of-the-food chain" dwellers

how to express ourselves is funny. Don’t you think?

Do you think? And about what?

As writers do we think before we speak or should we think about thinking to speak at all?

The art of paying attention. Like most things, we function on auto pilot.

I know the way home, therefore I get there.

I know my name, so when I hear it I respond.

What if we paid attention and focused more on the art of being.

Have I taken the necessary breathes to keep me my lungs full?

Is this apple really red? Green?

Is the driver in front of me really aware that I’m behind them?

Are my mirrors properly angled? Defrosted?

Language had an odd bed fellow- consciousness.

We cannot know what we say unless we are conscious of what words

 are, and the spaces in between.  The meanings that are given to them

are there for a reason.  Only consciousness allows us to know language.

Whether or not we know it well is up to us.

I, Too by Langston Hughes

There are a few works of literature that apply to ALL people no matter of race, color or creed. The most powerful words you will ever hear, in my opinion, come from a genuine heart which lives in a place called sincerity. And this is one very sincere message that can tell of any personal struggle any human has come face to face with.  I, Too is one of those poems that lives on its powerful words and their  reverberating meaning. This is a work not to be taken casually. Enjoy!


I, TOO

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed -

I, too, am America.

 
 

The Hug by Tess Gallagher from Staying Alive: Real Poems for Unreal Times

This poem made me think about every person to person encounter that I have had. No matter  how big or small, whether a passing smile or a quick hello, we never stop to think about what those small gestures could mean.
Let me know what you think.......

THE HUG
A woman is reading a poem on the street
and another woman stops to listen. We stop too,
with our arms around each other. The poem
is being read and listened to out here
in the open. Behind us
no one is entering or leaving the houses.

Suddenly a hug comes over me and I'm
giving it to you, like a variable star shooting light
off to make itself comfortable, then
subsiding. I finish but keep on holding
you. A man walks up to us and we know he hasn't
come out of nowhere, but if he could, he
would have. He looks homeless because of how
he needs. "Can I have one of those?" he asks you,
and I feel you nod. I'm surprised,
surprised you don't tell him how
it is - that I'm yours, only
yours, etc., exclusive as a nose to
its face. Love - that's what we're talking about, love
that nabs you with "for me
only" and holds on.

So I walk over to him and put my
arms around him and try to
hug him like I mean it. He's got an overcoat on
so thick I can't feel
him past it. I'm starting the hug
and thinking, "How big a hug is this supposed to be?
How long shall I hold this hug?" Already
we could be eternal, his arms falling over my
shoulders, my hands not
meeting behind his back, he is so big!

I put my head into his chest and snuggle
in. I lean into him. I lean my blood and my wishes
into him. He stands for it. This is his
and he's starting to give it back so well I know he's
getting it. This hug. So truly, so tenderly
we stop having arms and I don't know if
my lover has walked away or what, or
if the woman is still reading the poem, or the houses -
what about them? - the houses.

Clearly, a little permission is a dangerous thing.
But when you hug someone you want it
to be a masterpiece of connection, the way the button
on his coat will leave the imprint of
a planet on my cheek
when I walk away. When I try to find some place
to go back to.

The Sexual Revolution by Stephen Dunn

In that time of great freedom to touch
  and get touched,
we  lived on the prairie amid polite

moral certainty.  The sensate world seemed
  elsewhere, and was.
On our color television the president's body

admitted he was lying.  There was marching
  in the suddenly charged streets,
and what a girl in headband and miniskirt

called communication.  A faraway friend wrote
  to say the erotic life
was the only life.  Get with it, he said.

But many must have been slow-witted
  during The Age of Enlightenment,
led artless lives during The Golden Age.

We watched the revolution on the evening news.
  It was 1972
when the sixties reached all the way

to where we were.  The air became alive
  with incense and license.
The stores sold permission and I bought

and my wife bought until we were left
  with almost nothing.
Even the prairie itself changed;

people began to call it the Land, and once again
  it was impossibly green
and stretched endlessly ahead of us.

Dream Race

Stretched, loose, focused.
Tied laces
My heart races
Imagining my paces
Seeing eager faces
Look on as I take my mark.
One jump to relax,
Another to feel the track
Beneath my flats.
Hands out in front
Squatting to begin the run
I’m in the blocks.
Touching the ground
Arched, waiting for the sound.
Blinders set
Deep breath in, out,
I feel the hush of the crowd.
Breathe in,
GUN!
I’m off, as graceful as the Gazelle
I need to maintain distance
Can’t get drowned in the race.
One two one two
Beating flats hit the dirt
One two one two one two
I’m closing in, closer closer
Turn one, neck and neck
First straight away is a battle for place
I pull ahead, One runner gone.
I push harder, Two runners gone.
Breathing gets heavy
Taste of cotton discourages me, but still I push.
I’m at practice
It’s all the same
Lift my knees, Arch my back,
keep my arms low and dig,
Push Push Push.
Left right left right
Breaths are shorter paces quicken
Left right left right left right
My wings are spread as I fly into the next turn
The straight gets shorter, turns come faster
Three laps gone
Defeat would be disaster.
A final turn
Home’s in sight
I dig for one last push
Deep breath, in out,
In out in out
Counting my paces
Shortening the spaces
Not much further now.
In out in out
Left right left right
I’m so close yet so far away.
One runner on my left,
Another on my right
One trots ahead in my line of sight.
I need this
I want it more
I can catch them if I work
I dig, I dig, and I lean
Finish line.
I’m tipped.
No tape on my chest.
Second place
Better than the rest.
First Dream Race
A Sterling Victory.