Prompt for RWJ, Prompt 296

I know I’d asked for a writing poem. You know, a poem about writing. (Oh I see poems in a bucket, so this is real.) Often it’s language that’s steering us. It shapes a world view. There’re so many competing world views. And yet we own only our own. And believe it to be the true one. What’s your prevailing world view, that’s what I’m asking now, and relate it to writing if possible. Surely when we see the creatures in the world, and how amazing each is (for instance, think of a kangaroo, whose world view must surely rests on those powerful legs), and how different (contrast it with a snail who has a large and very flat foot), wouldn’t you begin to see how just writing names something for us? But do things exist because we speak of them? Of course not. Ultimately everything in the physical world is outside language, is “silent”. The poetic realm tries to address this “silence” too.


3 thoughts on “Prompt for RWJ, Prompt 296

  1. I have a quote for you. I’m reading “Snow Crash” by Neal Stephenson. Letter to the god Enki (pun?)
    “…I, a writer who knows many things, am made a fool.
    My hand has stopped writing
    There is no talk in my mouth…” Then the writer prays that god will ‘take pity and give it back to me.’
    How appropriate for where I am right now. But, I persevere (to your chagrin 🙂 haha)

  2. LORCA

    after his murder in the courtyard
    his body was sent to the cellar morgue
    where men of science dissected his flesh
    in search of those seditious words unsaid
    that waited for the right poem
    in the depths of him from which
    they might one day metrically sail free

    all they found were not unlike discoveries
    made in the battlefield autopsies of heroes
    who lie gut-wrenched, organs exposed
    to the elements of snow and ice and time
    while their filmed eyes like cameras
    indelibly capture life’s passing
    which the souls of them carry away

    he wrote poems in his Spanish tongue
    danced them down paper roads like village songs
    meant to be sung if only to rally the listless
    but those unversed in the art of sweet language
    those whose iron hands wield iron guns
    can only rattle destructive syllables of fire
    can only murder the poet but never the poem

    can never hear the language that trilled within him
    those sweet birds with so many stories to tell
    about sharing the expanse of land and sky


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