Growing roots wherever seed drops
but the metaphor seems to draw itself out largely by spoken word
not in the written
not in the now
Grime caked nails adorn weathered fingers
scoop and feel the cool and rough texture surrounding
dive into the sack
dive forward
in the sweaty work there is the promise of result
in the worn boots there is the hope of growth
just before season ends with the late september dogs’ song
New tender shoots coerced by time and divine nurture
grounded within bounded agrarian culture a perishable process
and they bear their new nature
and they bear seed
Time presses on the harvest being threshed and claimed
consumed by the action that use and purpose collide
fallen they’ve begun the chrysalis change
fallen they are no more
arms tired as the weight of success creates
legs given out as the end of season comes
just as the planted become death for the next generation
the cycle continues without concern for older plants
they never have the chance to age
not in the written
not in the now
dive into the sack
dive forward
and they bear their new nature
and they bear seed
fallen they’ve begun the chrysalis change
fallen they are no more
1:20am
20 January 2010
Is there soil for old plants?
I believe poetry is probably the most personal of writing and I honestly don’t consider my self talented in dissecting it or reviewing it, but this is what I saw and how I felt reading your work. Writing, like any art created, or any goal set, requires sweat, soul bearing emotion, death and rebirth. We exhaust ourselves searching for the perfect adjective, the perfect metaphor that doesn’t sound cliche’, and sometimes we fail in the attempt. That’s when the writing that we have been working on decays and dies, becomes the dirt under our feet and the fertilizer for new writing to come. I once had a creative writing teacher tell me to save every draft of everything I work on so I can look back on it and use it to make something better. I CAN’T WORK THAT WAY! I delete a lot and have ripped up more pages out of journals that I can count. Some people would call me insane but I always think if there was something good in that piece of – - – - I will remember it, it will be ingrained in my head and I can use it again and let the unimportant stuff go. Is there room for old plants, old writers like us who want to get back into the game? Absolutely. My father is 70. We have started writing a book together. We both feel like this might be the first thing for both of us that might actually find an audience and get published. He is my inspiration everyday because he never gave up. He is an old plant still searching for the write soil.
That is what I found in your poem. I hope it helps.
As someone who believes what you mention in the first sentence in your comment wholeheartedly, I appreciate the uncomfortable place critiquing any poetry puts you. But, I have a great view on my poetry…. whatever someone reads into it is more valid than my own viewpoint. Poetry is meant to paint a picture. To present something that someone can project themselves into. Otherwise, it’s just foolish words on a page. So, if you see anything in my poetry at all, please share. I am always glad when someone can see something, anything. As verbose as I am in my normal everyday life, I am so sparse with words when it comes to poetry. At least usually.
Thank you so much for being willing to share what you see. If you could, please tell me if turning phrases around, or suggestions for more powerful words, images would help carry the message. I so very much do not want to be someone who writes inanities that only I understand or am challenged with…. Thank you =) Don’t pull your punches… if there is any worth to my writing at all, I must become someone who can paint that picture more masterfully, not be trapped in my own understanding.
=) Oh, and I answer all questions asked… okay, most.