Saturday, March 10, 2018

Untitled (Written)

In the face
of these conflicting realities
Time melts to nothing –
dull lamplight
stutters in empty rooms –

your presence
lingers
closer than shadows
and I cannot dismiss
what has already been written –

no turning back the page
or relinquishing
the task –
no point in serenity
if even one shred
of you turns away
or fades –



For The Friday 55 hosted by Hedgewitch






13 comments:

  1. I like the way the chosen words blend in here, with nothing to show they were seized upon as touchstones except their own clarity and force. I am more than happy to encourage people to use any means they can to nudge their muse when she becomes recalcitrant--as you know, that's why I took up this whole 55 thing, and it has been a saving grace, like this poem of loss and love, time and change, where only a fool pretends to dismiss what has already been written. So glad you could join us Kerry--and thanks for adding another layer of memish-ness to the 55.

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    1. I must thank you, Joy, for the 55. Even when I don't have anything, it niggles me to write something...and here I am, barely keeping my head above water.

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    2. I echo your sentiments about Friday 55, Kerry.

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  2. When I started blacking out poetry, more than one person told me that it was disrespectful to the books. They didn't care that I had pulled those books out of the trash and gave some of the words, the paper... a new chance at life, at being loved... Your poem, especially the last two stanzas, reminds me of why I enjoy the process of blacking out poetry--it allows us to hold on to old words, even if (and, perhaps, because) we give them new shapes.

    I love the soul of this piece, and how you birthed it.

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    1. I wouldn't give a flying fuck about those silly people. What you do is art and how you do it is your prerogative. Never stop for small-mindedness.

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  3. This is wonderful... and true art can be found from art. This has a darkness that goes straight to the heart. I have always found that Dickens is perfect for black-out poetry... (or just to steal phrases from). I sometimes turn to Bleak House in search for words.

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    1. The task of turning this, my written nothings
      from shadows into presence of realities:
      to make a point that cannot be dismissed,
      to create serenity that lingers; not to fade
      to face the lamp and not to melt; is beyond
      my skill when only emptiness remains.

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    2. To face the lamp and not to melt....Now I wish I had seen that connection. I'm glad you found some meaning in the words too.

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  4. As John Lennon sang, "Know it can't harm you to feel your own pain!" It beats the snot out of feeling nothing.

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  5. dull lamplight
    stutters in empty rooms –

    this just sets the pace and tone - what an amazing piece here - I love the cadence of it and I feel like suddenly, my senses are on alert - as if I'm watching myself in a room, and wondering about so much - in absence .... to borrow a phrase, the heart is a lonely hunter ....

    as for borrowing inspiration? why the hell not! there is "nothing new" under the sun - Picasso said "good artists borrow, great artists steal" .... and how you or anyone finds their particular way into things and refashions them is part of the process -

    hope you have a great week Kerry

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  6. What a wonderful write Kerry and how melancholy your words, they leaving me a little sad.
    Finding art in art is very creative and you have done it so well.
    Anna :o]

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  7. Hey Kerry===I wouldn’t worry too much about using Dickens’ words as they are simply words (long out of copyright) and you are not plagiarizing in any sense of the word (or words). You alight here on that conflict between pain and time. Time heals all but sometimes that healing can mean a loss of the sharp and clear edges of memory—things we don’t wish to lose. This is a bit of a theme in Dickens’ work anyway==at least in Great Expectations—I have a harder time coming up with the story of David Copperfield, but there is certainly always a movement from expectation to emptiness in Dickens’ work, which you capture here. I especially like the first stanza are so, which could work as a poem on their own. (Though love the end too.). Thanks much. K.

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