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Odin odin@aflx.com

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Books
· Perceptions

· ECHOSIS

· Prosetry at Work

· Said and Unsaid - Vol 1

· 3 WAY MIRROR


Short Stories
· Patience Waning

· Ladle Lines (A prosetry memory)

· A Gentle Man

· Pacing Love's Journey

· Gratitude

· A Sticky Conversation

· Blazing Now and Then

· Vulnerable Captivity

· The Kite That Would Not Bow

· Time


Articles
· War and Peace

· Desperation Breeds Desperation

· Preference Manifest

· Innocent Guilt

· Barbed Isolation

· A Place...

· Sanity's Loss

· Organs Anonymous

· Fatuous Beyond Absurdity

· Truth is One


Poetry
· The Life-long Pernicious Evil

· Cherishing Sounds of Silence

· Understanding the Unexplainable

· Reality of Another Kind

· Finding Trust Again

· Aromalicious Memories

· A Jungle-rain Pastorale

· Sediment Within the Soul

· Life's Enormous Green Chest

· Roadkill Memoriam

         More poetry...

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The Pen's Selfless Self

by Odin odin@aflx.com — Read all 3,869 poems by Odin odin@aflx.com

As the fall colors are all but gone, there is a longing to revisit a Van Gogh message. I am reminded of how like Nature, there are many artists driven by a need to give of themselves to others through their creations. The vast canvas of written modalities is no exception.

Monday, November 26, 2012

The Pen's Selfless Self

 

 

Can words convey

 

The blood made rich

         By toil and sorrow's demands

The spirit made alive

         By reality's harsh weather

The heart made simple

         By sifting apart passion's finery?

 

Is not breath's echo

         But a mirror held high to reflect the all?

Are not life's smiles

         But reflections of the one?

Is not a child's laughter

         But resonance of joy's past lives?

 

What if the lyrical

         Were to convey violence from within?

Would it protect us from violence without

         Allowing perhaps the renaming of reality?

 

And how would that reality present itself?

 

Might it be love's enigma

         Made understood

Provision to know someone else

         After first suffering the knowledge of ourselves?

 

With pen in hand

 

Our scribbles plead knowing fresh language

         Lightly touched upon the page

Affording dialectic for the seeker

         While others cling passionately their memoire of ignorance

 

Perchance

 

Such words written

         Are but mirror-shaped symbols

Visible only to the reader whose inner-light upon the page

         Offers translation to the elusive self

 

Such vulnerability

 

Affords revelations to infinity's ebb and flow

         Where endless beginnings

Provide timeless ripples connecting the child of our pen

         With the warrior of our whispered words



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Reviewed on December 2, 2012
the pen usually atached to the hand, that's attached to the heart and unfortunately sometimes the brain (ignorant it is). Some of the best stuff ever written is felt and barely understood. me thinks.

Reviewed by E Phillips
Reviewed on November 26, 2012
I marvel at your command of words and emotion and context and fluidity.

Reviewed by Diana Legun (Reader)
Reviewed on November 26, 2012
Cornucopia of a poem, Odin, spilling out here on the page needing no picture for this because the words are enough. I felt myself reading this piece in two parts: questions, then answers. I so enjoy poetry of questions. Your description line touches on the heartbeat of artistry, including music...."driven by a need to give of themselves to others through their creations." This poem of yours swirled up so much imagery in my mind as I read, starting with "...heart made simple/By sifting apart passion's finery?" -- wheat from chaff, downsizing life to the essentials, filtering out unhealthy elements or entities. The breath's echo being a held-up mirror reflecting all breathing, one smile all smiles, one laugh all laughing. One main image conjured by the reading of your poem: I see a child's black crayon stabbing out stick figures with mad faces and sharp teeth expressing violence within. The child being too young to recognize that the black feelings page-drawn come from outside, then from inside themselves to outside again. The child is driven to give their feelings to others who see their picture (scraped knee feels better if someone sees it), which is also a pleading to know words (or frustration of having no words) for these darknesses, which progress from crayon to pencil in a diary: "Dear Diary, I hate my Mom!" Your language led me to look up 'dialectical', thank you. Invalidation vs. unconditional acceptance. This poem wraps itself end-to-end beautifully with your last two lines (wizardly do you work your last lines) "...child of our pen/.....warrior of our whispered words." The style you have of offering a divisional one-word or few-word line, introducing the following stanza, is unflinchingly effective in my eyes. ~~ Diana

Reviewed by Ronald Hull
Reviewed on November 26, 2012
Richly created and presented for the palate of hungry readers.

Ron

Reviewed by Christine Tsen
Reviewed on November 26, 2012
Brainy and richly perceptive ~

Reviewed by Budd Nelson
Reviewed on November 26, 2012
a very interesting perspective to consider
budd


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