Friday, February 22, 2008

Fears that Startle

I'm in a few excellent writing groups. There is one where we have the freedom and pleasure of just flying from the cuff and the beauty and magic that often flows there is beyond expressing. I'm in a few others where varying levels of critique are exercised. Some are rigid and exacting, while I think of another that is blunt, filled with exceptional craftsmen, and overflowing with an energy that can't help but spark new creative fires.

I shared this poem in a couple of them a few days ago and it was the response to the poem, not its structure, but its content, that I found intriguing. It was someone they knew, someone they loved, someone they distrusted, someone they ...

That isn't that extraordinary. Poetry should do that, but for some reason it was that little something extra that seemed to be between the lines in some of the messages and responses that piqued my intrigue. So, I thought I'd share the poem with you:


Seeing through to his hollowness,
I ache. He doesn't want me to,
see him, that is. Others don't.
They want him to be who he dreams
of being, but isn't.

I taste the fears that startle
him awake when truth
slips between the artificial
layers even he
has grown to believe.

Why should I feel such guilt
knowing there is no one to tell,
even if I want to. I don't.
I wish instead to be snagged,
converted by his glow.

I have been wrong I think
somewhere some time, but not
about this. Ever. He doesn't want
me to, see him, that is. And,
perhaps in reality, I don't.

©Peggy Eldridge-Love -2008 – All Rights Reserved

That deep tortured person some folk described as preceiving in the poem brought to mind this tiny little sculpture I created, too. The human experience is truly a mysterious journey.

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