"Fairy Dust"

From Modern Poetry 1 BMCC Spring 2008

Personal and public/balance.
Being able to write from my heart without being in an extreme state.

I want to be able to write what is raw/extreme/intense/maniacal
I want to be able to write what is calm/serene/recognizant of nature/magic
There must be a balance
Poetry is not black and white

I want to come out of my conscious mind, my analytical mind.

I want to be able to write poetry when I am not in extreme states, I want to feel beauty with any one of my five senses and know that it is there. I do not want a name for it that comes from my intellect. I want a sound for it that comes from the secret music of my being. I want poetry to become a passing song, a simple tune that resonates with the boy in Alaska. I want to be able to speak in volumes. I want the serenity that follows Neruda’s lines, like a eulogy that leaves you feeling experienced and unemotional. I want wisdom and calm that comes from breaking my ankle and knowing that it is a bone, bones heal, that’s what they do. I want to separate the human lizard brain from my everyday being and live through an air that breathes on its own.; an air that does not rush for the morning and put it up like magnets on the fridge. I want all my poetry to be the long night that Novalis speaks of. Never ending and infinite, I want the pen to burn the paper.

I want to burn the page and then photograph its ashes, always coming up with something new. I want to feel in my being that nothing ever dies, that a poem is like a memory that resonates.
Poetry is colour, it is not black and white, full of rules and goals and premeditated syllables. It flows through my soul like oxygen, it spits saliva on the concrete. It is an angry woman waiting for change. My Poetry is that which comes natural to my ears like the sound from the stream.
I want to be able to write it when I break my ankle and when I see a six inch snow man sitting on top of the ledge. I do not want those latter moments to pass so lightly, I want the paper to know them, and know them like it knows that rice takes twenty minutes to cook. Or that water takes six minutes to boil.
I want to commit beauty to paper like people press flowers into books. When the lizard brain and the mammal brain are vying for attention, I want the poetry to intercept and say “this is what it is like to breathe; inhale, exhale, now do it again, pay attention-now do it again with your body.
I want to make poetry with my body and not just through the feeling of knowing that my skull is intact. I can trace the shape of my body and put it on paper, but that will not do my “soul” justice. That will not feed the interconnectedness of my mind/body/soul.

That is not the poet in Her true form.
My poetry must speak volumes, it must speak volumes to the pen, the paper, the writer and the reader. Deeper.
It must find the balance between the static and the screams in my head.
The noise will speak for itself; but the silence must also find its form. That form is in the miniature snow man. I want to use my poetry to get more in touch with nature, my nature and mother nature. Only through this will I find the balance, only through this will it keep its color. Poetry is color.
I want to come into a calmer state of being, through my poetry, whether I am writing about bone dust or fairy dust.