Navel Gazing
To know what is right
You must first know what is wrong.
To know what is wrong
You must have a scale
To judge the thing in question.
In order to judge,
There must be discernment
To measure the accuracy
Of your judgement.
That can take either time
Or training,
Or a keen eye,
Or a sensitive ear,
Or the happy and unlikely blending
Of all four.
My work follows no rules.
There is (generally) no rhythm, no rhyme,
Very little obvious form,
And often no discernible reason.
Rules would diminish the effect
I want to create.
Rules are for sonnets and haiku.
Each line represents a beat in a cadence
That is meant to enhance,
Imposing order where none
Seems to exist,
To organize things in a subtle way
And pass on signals
For the recitation of the piece.
They are primitive chants
Meant to invoke spirits
And enchant listeners
To partake.
The lines are meant to be spoken aloud,
Each one meant to be a phrase that,
Once assembled,
Falls into place,
Another stone in the pyramid,
Just another puzzle piece
That can exist on its own
But is meant to be part of a greater whole.
It is really prose disguised as poetry,
Really not one or the other,
But both
Where less is more
And where more diminishes
The effectiveness of the work,
Forcing an economy of words
To achieve an abundance of meaning.
While outwardly obscure,
It is detailed in meaning
Where meaning is yours to uncover
While I struggle to hide the obvious
And play a game with you.
I continue down this way,
Joining vast numbers of writers
Who have no technical skills
Nor professional training,
But continue to write nonetheless.
I am one small fish in a vast sea
Of untrained swimmers
Paddling about in demanding waters
And almost certain to drown,
Displaying Tacoma-Narrows skills
In a honoured profession.
