There is a storm brewing on the island today.  Batten down the hatches, or evacuate if you do not like the taste of bitter salt water in your face.  No more will posts be stripped down and  this may be the only channel of communication left open.  Even Melville is not coming through, and that is a bad sign of a an un-tempered post.

So take it or leave it.

And I mean

leave

it.

Well, now  he has awakened the beast.  She hates gifts half given and she distrusts those who isolate her in the name of love.

Daughter of the Lands did you wait for your poet?*

No one can any longer afford to wait for their poet, for the modern world has no time or patience for such ill confined thoughts.

Perhaps the poetry is false.  What sort of poetry is given in a void as if it must be guarded like an assigned card number through which ones identity can slip into the hands of criminals?

That is not what poetry is,

The cloak of metaphor is the thing, the very thing which allows poetry to walk in public.

Her poet

is not her poet,

“for my poet.” she declares,

“will give me poetry with which I may stroll along the sand,

carry on my sleeve.

give as proof to the world

that I am lovable in ways that can be neither dissected nor explained.

Loved without having to earn it every waking breathing moment.

Loveable, passionately lovable, without condition.

My poet will not censor my expression, slam shut my mouth, nor fasten down my writing hand with a clenched grip on my wrist like so many others so many others

who spoke to her  of love

and then said—but fit it in this box.

Keep your voice down, but

“I am terrible at whispering.” she admits, to no one, or everyone, in particular.

“I am terrible at keeping my voice down.”

She will exceed all reasonable expectations in what she calls for when she calls on understanding.   Because she cannot locate the box in which she belongs.

She cannot figure out  the suffocating confines of  her place on this shelf, within this dizzying Dewey decimal system of life as human:

Is it somewhere between 100 and 200, (Philosophy and Psychology and Religion)?

Or am I more on the 400 border between Social Sciences and Language.

“Perhaps.” she muses, for musing is something she does, “perhaps I am firmly stationed in fiction alone.  Without history.  Without geography.”

Or maybe she can not be categorized.  Maybe she has grown tired of trying to fit into the narrow spaces prescribed.

Pardon me if I am not communicating correctly.  Pardon me for slipping out of the third person where I should safely sanction my voice through the storm, for it is a storm a brewing.

Perhaps I have lost all sense of

what

I can possibly

say

right.

 

Rachel Goodrich – Excuses Excuses

excuses excuses
you like to blame those little voices
in your head for being mean

excuses excuses
you’ve got to find yourself another one
for i’ve learned all sixteen

it doesn’t matter how long i wait
my ears have aged
im turning grey
save them for someone else

excuses excuses
be careful with it’s usage
for it may abusive verbally

excuses reduces
all the more of being friends
and whether or not you want me
back again

it doesn’t matter how long i wait
my ears have aged
im turning grey
save them for someone else

excuses excuses
you like to blame those little voices
in your head for being mean

excuses reduces
all the more of being friends
and whether or not you want me
back again

it doesn’t matter how long i wait
my ears have aged
im turning grey
save them for someone else

*“Oh Daughter of the Lands, did you wait for your poet?” Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

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