a love story: ars poetica
Want the backstory? Here’s my mixed tape of Love Songs.
Becoming a student of poetry in an MFA program can be like entering the thirsty immortalizing high-school halls of vampires. We drink darkness.They instill questionable senses and question all instilled ones.
Poetry has masks and blinders to wear, ancient rhythm for internal sonar, and lines to break. We each struggle with a tether, so I take in a sick empathy for ones who write.
Give me a poet knee-walking drunk. Give me a poet and his favorite nude art. Give me a poet and her window gaze. Give me her wicked sixth sense.
Seth comes home, worn from passionate writing on behalf of the mistreated muslim, and I do not care for him or his work. I have no vision for his art: to dive and puzzle, Review the Law.
So I spew and spew over a paper in accord with what I dig from graves, and Seth rests and plays guitar. What little love I have, but he works at the ashes and turns up a glow. Like years before, in a cafeteria, he glows, and I’m annoyed. I want no burning bushes, but I can’t look away. There’s a part of him, like one rushing with a blazing lantern into a scorcorer’s den, that retrieves me.
And as I follow, untethered, I grow in love for the light, and the light that is in him was the light that shone over the surface of the oldest void. This is the morning I became a better poiema. One called me Day, and so there was born a new thirst for Light.