Zwerglipatch April 14, 2012 3:19 p.m.
Spring does put a bounce in one’s step. It certainly does make the birds vocal. All is well at Zwerglipatch here in Hauppauge. My neurons are buzzing.
This morning, I achieved what I wished to do — my short-term goals for the day. Thus, I have some free moments to express my admiration for what I have by feeling as if I have my lifetime in front of me which I do, yet, what is behind me was grand as well, if one looks at experience and does not delve on the could-have-beens. Again, considering today is part of early Spring, this coming Summer will be a Summer like it was many years ago when I had the World at my fingertips.
I now have the World in my grasp — firmly — I will not let it go. My experiences, long ago, taught me well. I have achieved what I thought, back then, was impossible. There is no trick to achieving. It takes patience, diligence, and courage. Yet, I don’t think of myself as having any of those attributes. Thus, once again, one can be an imperfect judge when it comes to looking at the Self. Ah, contentment is a reality. My partner, René, and I are, indeed, well matched. we can be silent and communicate. True, we could verbalize more, yet, why? We seem to know even when we think we don’t. We are different and the same. We are content. We are together. Forever.
Forever is a word denoting purity. Purity in truth. Purity in love. Purity in humor. These make up the core of the Purity René and I have discovered. After thirty-two years, we are still exploring — still sharing. We are bold. We are fearless. It is as if we have, as we have heard it said, bonded at the hip. Sobeit. I cannot explain. I live. I live with René. He makes my day happy and complete. We are comfortable. We are as comfortable as well-worn furniture.
Zwerglipatch April 28, 2012 7:15 a.m.
I have taken a respite from my daily writing of poetry. On Vieques [Puerto Rico], when I finished JWG’s Mental Pathways, I began a book of autobiographical poems, JWG’s The Reader. In this new volume, I halted. [I have now continued.] I felt I had to read even more to be complete. Yet, one can hardly ever be “complete”. It is a given that we Readers are not to be satisfied. We breathe words. We savor words. We expand our knowledge with words.
Words on a page do not speak. They are silent. I thrive on silence. Silence is secretive. Silence cannot be contradicted. Silence needn’t be explained. Silence is interpreted. Surprises abound. There is much to learn from Silence.
Carol Ann Duffy, the first woman poet-laureate of Great Britain, says “A poet should be private and invisible.” Her American counterpart, Philip Levine, says, “I think we witness things, but are not witnessed.” Both statements, for me, are truisms. I, myself, have privately witnessed a great deal. Witnessing is experiencing even when participation may not be evident. It is the act of the poet to place on paper the scenes witnessed. When successful, a poem is complete.
I have on my shelf many volumes of poetry by an array of Poets. I have read them. I have not memorized very many. In fact, at this moment, I cannot bring to my mind a single, complete poem. I read. For me, the poem, like the word, is imbued with a personal essence that is inexplicable. In concentrating on what I have read, I have begun to see how little I have actually experienced on the written page which was the hurdle I have just jumped. In fact, I, today, realize that it was not a hurdle; it was a bar so high that I required a very sturdy pole with which to successfully pole-vault into a new realm. This realm is a cushion of words upon which I have landed — a pillow of personal comfort. Being comfortable makes reading a most enjoyable pastime. The knowledge, for me, that there will always be words that are newly arranged, words that present new ideas, new visions, new experiences is a given that urges me on to witness joy and sorrow.
It is too, too easy to dwell on sorrow. It is too, too difficult to share one’s thorough joy. It is simple to embark on a new day with open eyes and unblocked ears.
This morning, my eyes and ears are delving into bags of words I have saved and am now culling to continue the process of continuing JWG’s The Reader. Reading once again, what was most important to me for a brief flash, is not important. I no longer find it crucial to have a complete set of screws to hold my psyche together. What will pour from this pen is the result of what I have witnessed. I have learned to share. I have always cared. “Too much” is a phrase akin to “too high”. My hoard of words can no longer be silence preventing me to roar. If they are not read, words on a shelf do no good. My shelves have been read by me alone. There comes a day, a moment, to donate what I have on my shelves so others will have the same experience; to be a witness to the same event. This is essential, if one wishes to concentrate on joy. Today, I am in a joyful mood.
To read is to feel emotions that exist, yet, are new to the reader. Or, to reawaken emotions one had and forgot. Or, emotions one wishes with a strong desire to attain. The affirmation of the written word helps us all to mold our selves. Hopefully, these “selves” will be loving, understanding individuals. The horror I find is that there is too, too much hate written that divides us and brings suffering and sorrow. I, myself, have spent too many moments writing about these hateful words. I do wish I could stop, but, as long as they are out there, I will have to continue my Butterfly War. I will have to retain a presence to share my personal joys which bring no harm to anyone. To be succinct is for what I strive. Thus, the rambling on these pages are useless for hardly any person will ever see these few words. Too few people read. This is a fact that will exist. I, myself, do not read enough. I peck away at words prospecting to find the perfect combination to explain what is in my heart filled with Aloha.
