I am not an artist/poet. I tend to the practical rather than the romantic. I have no sense of rhythm. My body does not sway to the music of the dance floor. If I give voice to the music in my head, it erupts into a discordant howl. I agonize over the thoughts swirling in my mind , desperately trying to type them into coherent words. I describe this as, my stick figured writing, reaching for Van Goth. And yes, my attempt at art is confined to stick figures.
Lent starts tomorrow, a time of purifying the body to renew the spirit, and so I thought this would be the perfect time to coax some poetry from my soul.
My past poetry experience had been limited to the poetic works of St. John of the Cross, Jessica Powers and my life long friend ‘Selected Works of Poetry and Prose’. However, since signing on to WordPress a year ago, I have read some wonderful blogs expressing various forms of poetry and am starting to think that attempting to write some poetry would improve my overall writing.
I started this blog as a diary but have recently attempted some short fictional stories. I would like to express my endless gratitude to fellow bloggers, who help and encourage new comers like me, by posting thoughtful prompts and offering encouraging comments, when these prompts are attempted.
To start my poetry experience, while searching for inspiration I am going back to a biblical source, The Song of Songs. I will be reading and reflecting on this unusual section of the Old Testament…….and perhaps share some of my findings over the next forty days. The Song of Songs starts with:
Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth—
for your love is more delightful than wine.
Pleasing is the fragrance of your perfumes;
your name is like perfume poured out.
No wonder the young women love you!
Take me away with you—let us hurry!
Let the king bring me into his chambers.
Here are the first two stanzas of a poem known as The Shepherd, by St. John of the Cross.
A lone young shepherd lived in pain
Withdrawn from pleasure and contentment,
His thoughts fixed on a shepherd girl
His heart an open wound with love.
He weeps, but not from the wound of love,
There is no pain in such a wound
However deeply it opens the heart;
He weeps in knowing he’s been forgotten.
So, my learning path to writing poetry starts tomorrow. If anyone reading this can offer some advice I will be eternally grateful……and promise not to return from the grave to haunt you. Exactly how long is eternal?