Making Sense

Whatever works; keep it clear.

:)

That line of understanding between the writer, and the reader is an interesting line indeed isn't it ?


Enjoyed reading this :)

It seems to me to be a relationship, like lovers...and we need to be able to read the needs and satisfy....not merely meet our own needs....MaggieG.

Yes indeed, give and take. Be true to yourself, and as encompassing as possible with the reader as well :)  

I rather see the path to real intimacy as our coming to know the reader as ourselves, and so to know ourselves truly is a pre-requisite for knowing the reader as self, MaggieG., and thus the true value of reflection. Introspection is trans-dimensional in nature, as are empathy and compassion.

Hmmmm

You have peeked my curiosity. :) Give me an example of a writer that does that for you please ?  

The Descent

 
by William Carlos Williams

The descent beckons
   as the ascent beckoned.    
       Memory is a kind
of accomplishment,  
   a sort of renewal
       even
an initiation, since the spaces it opens are new places
   inhabited by hordes
       heretofore unrealized,
of new kinds—
   since their movements
       are toward new objectives
(even though formerly they were abandoned).

No defeat is made up entirely of defeat—since
the world it opens is always a place
   formerly
       unsuspected. A
world lost,
   a world unsuspected,
       beckons to new places
and no whiteness (lost) is so white as the memory
of whiteness     .

With evening, love wakens
   though its shadows
       which are alive by reason
of the sun shining—
   grow sleepy now and drop away
       from desire     .

Love without shadows stirs now
   beginning to awaken
       as night
advances.

The descent
   made up of despairs
       and without accomplishment
realizes a new awakening:
       which is a reversal
of despair.
   For what we cannot accomplish, what
is denied to love,
   what we have lost in the anticipation—
       a descent follows,
endless and indestructible     .

Waxwings

Four Tao philosophers as cedar waxwings
chat on a February berry bush
in sun, and I am one.

Such merriment and such sobriety--
the small wild fruit on the tall stalk--
was this not always my true style?

Above an elegance of snow, beneath
a silk-blue sky a brotherhood of four
birds. Can you mistake us?

To sun, to feast, and to converse
and all together--for this I have abandoned
all my other lives.

 
Robert Francis

Here is the one that has always done it for me,


The Excrement Poem
by Maxine Kumin   1978


It is done by us all, as God disposes, from
the least cast of worm to what must have been
in the case of the brontosaur, say, spoor
of considerable heft, something awesome.

We eat, we evacuate, survivors that we are.
I think these things each morning with shovel
and rake, drawing the risen brown buns
toward me, fresh from the horse oven, as it were,

or culling the alfalfa-green ones, expelled
in a state of ooze, through the sawdust bed
to take a serviceable form, as putty does,
so as to lift out entire from the stall.

And wheeling to it, storming up the slope,
I think of the angle of repose the manure
pile assumes, how sparrows come to pick
the redelivered grain, how inky-cap

coprinus mushrooms spring up in a downpour.
I think of what drops from us and must then
be moved to make way for the next and next.
However much we stain the world, spatter

it with our leavings, make stenches, defile
the great formal oceans with what leaks down,
trundling off today's last barrowful,
I honor shit for saying: We go on.

Yes, it is as you say here, the most basic and fundamental of all notions....momentum, propelled by  the inertia of the organic.  It is in our nature to meld into our own, the tar pits, the oil fields, the mass cities of anonymity.  And yet, naming it, it both disappears and is given station and oblivion.  We are the sparks that together firefly the evening of a single moment, tracers of a pattern that can only be caught in flight by the eyes of those who do not blink to squabble about why we are here.

*smiles*

I rarely give thought to the why. No reason to really. It is not like you are gonna change it. I have always loved that poem because Ms. Kumin found dignity in our less than dignified side, showing in my opinion that it is all necessary.

And I love that about your work...what is point of being anywhere but here?  In the forums I sometimes wonder about my own rubber necking....I could be writing poetry...and we've had this conversation and shared....and been right here.  Thanks

Thank you, Betty, for your thoughtfulness.  My thesis is that emotions are pre-formative of thoughts.  We feel our way, and thoughts are the rationalizations of those feelings.  In this way, thoughts reveal feelings, but no amount of reasoning can change an emotion.  The imprinting process is a direct perception, however ill formed, and can only be overwritten by a more powerful emotion: Trust.  It is thus our job to win trust.  This is interactive and personal.

This is inspiration for writers, a reminder that if you post or publish in hopes of your material being read and felt by other souls. It first has to be understandable. In my opinion the three tools that makes us human are our mental capacity (brains/minds/psche/reasoning/creativity/curiosity), our hands (literally thumbs are a blessing), and our language. Miscommunication and lack of understanding is the cause of most human conflict, even disagreements are some form of miscommunication unless the ideas are polar opposites. "Whew" im done rambling you've already said it in the poem and more. Keep doing what you do RT, you are the Yoda of DU. The Yoda of DU, you are.

Welcomed I feel, and supportive you are...writing more poems I will be doing...