How quickly, easily my regard for the familiar deepens when I look at objects I have kept for no know reasons: quartz from a forgotten quarry, a ballpoint pen with stiffening ink, and even that one unmatched button found among my handkerchiefs. I have come to think of them as preparations; they are my reaching out to comprehend what I still am after having used them. Meanwhile through disuse and neglect they grow in significance and I can no longer be free of them. Now, with their surfaces and contours dulled with dust, their purposes gone, I pick them up one by one - still aware I am of the familiarity gained and the objectivity lost.
A people’s heart can be found in their poetic words. In history men and women have stood firmly upon their soapboxes and street corners, rallying the deepest beliefs of people to rise up and be heard. The poetrypages.com has offered that voice a new