Poetry
Keeps undressing itself in front of me. The minute I think I know how to define it, it up and changes costumes. I guess that's why I stay interested. Poetry is water - moving as the soul. Since I was a kid, I can't remember a time when I was not endlessly fascinated by that which remains invisible to the eyes of the world.
Keeps undressing itself in front of me. The minute I think I know how to define it, it up and changes costumes. I guess that's why I stay interested. Poetry is water - moving as the soul. Since I was a kid, I can't remember a time when I was not endlessly fascinated by that which remains invisible to the eyes of the world.
But to speak to soul
One must speak to the world
Directly. How can there be a conversation with what is unseen if you ignore what is seen? And how can there be a conversation with what is seen if 'unseen' has been denied. These are the golden intricacies of this existence that keep me panting for more; keep me invested in connecting the dots - playing with the sparkly wonderment the way a child dips its hands in the mud. So...
One must speak to the world
Directly. How can there be a conversation with what is unseen if you ignore what is seen? And how can there be a conversation with what is seen if 'unseen' has been denied. These are the golden intricacies of this existence that keep me panting for more; keep me invested in connecting the dots - playing with the sparkly wonderment the way a child dips its hands in the mud. So...
What else could the girl who fell in love with a mango tree when she was three-years-old do with her life? All I ever wanted was to spend my time falling in love with mango anything and trees everything and rocks everywhere and twigs that look like animals and animals that look like twigs and dirt clumps and rivers bathed in sunshine and clouds that write dissertations on letting go...
I had to be a poet.
Photo credits in order they appear:
Raksha Boiteau
My Mom (probably)
Jonas Llewellyn MacPhail
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