Poetry in the pain
The tide is rising, taunting me. And here I sit,
wide-legged, a butterfly with wings outstretched for
the first time in a long time. Even a breath
without wings outstretched is a
breath too long away
from freedom.
The grounding of
multicolored rocks at the foot
of the shore, licked by the wicked winds
and even wickeder waves. These waves always give
me something to write about. Always something to look at.
To feel. These waves remind me what it means to feel.
To allow the coming and coming and coming
of emotional release. To be unafraid
of the soft power.
The ease
with which orgasm
flows. This life, a multiorgasmic
experience, devoid of trying.
Where does poetry flow into this?
It doesn’t.
Because poetry is it.
Poetry is the multiorgasmic
experience of life, devoid of trying.
It is to sense the rising tide, heart full
with anticipation and mirth and abandonment.
And wild abandon. For nothing can stop the flow. Just as
nothing can tame the fire of the heart. Who would we be without
our pain? Sometimes, the only thing keeping us alive.
It’s the moment before the wave crashes,
the pain. Builds up to a height of feeling then tumbles and pours out into the wide expanse of life, dissolving
into nothing.
Into everything.
Into the pain
we
all
carry.
The joy
of the journey
is to breathe freshly
and deeply where the pain exists.
Where the pain persists. Let the pain carry us
under the surface and into new life, where it is still and silent
and we cannot move without the grace of pain such that it becomes pleasure.
Thoughtless, formless wonder of ceaseless play. What if we played in the pain? Would that make us insane?
Might that move us from the brain… to the heart? Where it all began and where it will all end.
Poetry in the pain.
Forsake fuck the raindrops and welcome the deep and enthusiastic swell.
Let
it
flow.
Let it be well.
