To Want Is Not Enough

To want is not enough…

to keep me,

you must love

your want.

the (not so) wee notes…
– I spent most of last night talking to a friend who is having a total gastrectomy as I write this note. She’s worried about the pain and discomfort that will come with recovery. She fears the pain-boredom combination “will drive [her] nuts” (a body can’t get very physical after stomach surgery). “How do you deal with it (pain)?” she asked me. “How do you keep your mind from wanting to escape your head?” I told her the truth: “I busy my skull with tales. Then, I challenge my brain to remember them until my hands have the time to birth them in ink.”

She sighed… and reminded me that not everyone has my memory. I explained that when one feels like pain is eating one’s gut from the inside, remembering epics is not an option. If you have been walking this blogging journey with me for a while, my Wicked Luvs, you might remember why I started dancing with poetry. I didn’t do it because I thought poetry was easier than fiction *eyeroll*. I welcomed poetry into my life because almost anyone can remember a line or three (pain be damned). The remembering is easy. The hard part is what keeps the brain-housing group busy: I distract myself from pain by embracing all the effort it takes to shape the remembered lines into poetry.

Take the micropoem above, as an example: I crafted the blackout part on a day I couldn’t get out of bed much. When sitting up became tiresome (and torture on my lower back), I put the old book aside, and started to play with the shape of the poem in my head. “To want is not enough” says quite a bit. But I wanted the poem to say more. Not enough for what? for instance. So, I added the 2nd and 3rd lines to answer that question. And lastly, the 4th line to reiterate what it is that the subject must love if she wants to keep the speaker.

Doing that used some time, but… my gut still wasn’t ready to let me get on my feet. So… of course, I worked it some more. I played with the structure, layered the lines so that they would say other things within the poem bit. To me (and to some of you, I hope), this poem doesn’t only say

To want is not enough…

to keep me,

you must love

your want.

It also says:

– To want is not enough to keep me
and…
– to keep me, you must love
and…
me, you must love
and…
must love your want
and…
…it probably says things that I haven’t seen (yet).

 

That’s the magic of micropoetry (and of all heart-kissed poetry), methinks. Just a bit can say everything… if we brain-love that bit enough.

– while we are on the subject of brain-loving poetry, if you have a minute or 13, visit Poets United, where Sherry is featuring my poem, “How Different We Are Not”, next to the poetic yumminess of Kerry O’Connor and Rajani.

– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

When the World Starts Stinking this Much, We Must Art Ourselves Some Potpourri

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.” ~ Lady Chatterley’s Lover, by D.H. Lawrence

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I had an interesting conversation with a friend, who wanted to know why my writing has “gone from blood and guts and dead things to love, love, love, and sexy things.” He is not complaining about the change. He has been reading my words since before I shared them with anyone else, from when they were wee scribblings on the margins of schoolwork… He’s just surprised that in a time of much turmoil, I’ve “chosen to go freaky sweet.”

He’s not the only one asking. In the last couple of weeks, some of you have messaged me with similar inquiries: “Your writing’s so sexual lately. What’s going on?” And, “I wish I was getting some of what you’re getting. All I do is watch the news and scream bloody murder. Share, dammit!” And my favorite, “Why aren’t you writing about dismembering things? Dismemberment feels adequate. You haven’t gone romantic? Don’t scare me.”

My answer to these questions is short: I’m a child of balance, a soul who believes that what we feed grows. Right now, I believe we must feed what makes us feel good.

You see, my Wicked Luvs, I delight in writing that is passionate, that heats up the blood, that makes muscle want to move bone, writing that digs deep, deep, deep… and makes the mind feel things (or, at least, that’s my intention *cough*). Tales that are sexy, dark, and bloody have always been my favorite to write and read. They touch all the right spots in my brain. Writing them into the world makes my darkness deliciously bright. I love it.

But…

…right now, the world is a raging mess—people are drowning in the results of climate change, nations are being led by dangerous idiots, groups are feeding monsters we hoped dead, people around the world (and the Web) are dismembering each other’s hopes.

But (thank goodness)…

…there are also people trying to spread pretty spells, individuals trying to feed emotions that relax the body, that nudge the brain to release serotonin, oxytocin… and other happy hormones that conjure up smiles… even, if for just a bit.

I can’t go to the streets and rally against injustice and bigotry. I can’t donate millions to help those who need it most (I’ve done my wee monetary bit, but it’s not enough). There is so much I can’t do. But I can write of happy, happy, happy love in lust. And share it.

I will spell lusty words, let them feed on what burns in my flesh and bones, infuse them with love (the way I know it), and then send them into the world.  As I said to my dearest Rommy, on a post she shared on Facebook (about a man whose beliefs should make most people a bit sick), “when the world starts stinking this much, we must art ourselves some potpourri… if we can.” And I can. So, I will write sex… in love.