Evading reason(ing) On the lyrical I

Well, I just don't know the reason,
I don't know what to say,
it just seems a normal day,
and, I've got to live my own life,
I just can't spare the time,
But, you've got strange things on your mind

Sometimes, when I'm not distracted, I get these real ideas. Not necessarily great, as such, but regardless, I can't let (them) go. So, I keep contemplating them. I keep constructing material therefrom, based thereupon, I can't forget and it's buggering me. Cos I can't seem to catch the perfect, pinpointed view on the specific case, I can't find the form, but I work on relentlessly until I find something that is close enough to be accepted. Or be useful, anyhow. Somehow. In whatever shape I manage to come up with, intelligible in meaning or not.

This was one such occasion.

Last week, or I don't remember exactly when it all started, these four lines appeared in my mind whilst writing instant messages on msn - of all things. I don't think when I write, I compose with a strain. But I write from my heart and it's there you reside. Final stop, end of story. I sent it off to a friend of mine and I'm not sure that he replied, can't recall any exact words, I doubt he even noticed the full message, but I still copied and saved the words. For later. And suddenly, this week, must have been the day before yesterday, the next chapter dawned on me. No cause, just effect. Bang. I won't talk if not heard, for I strive to find meaning. As of most times I'm drifting, and yet sometimes I'll do...And I realized I had to make something out of this shit, only problem was I didn't know what. So I started changing the words. And albeit it wasn't very sophisticated or advanced, any of it, the lines soon turned into the foundation for a poem. A meta-poem, no less. I then discovered where my inspiration must come from, in the first place, for this monday we were reading Alice Walker in class and she's written this absolutely fabulous piece called "How poems are made/A discredited view"; and yeah, there's a reason why I link to that particular site; which is one of my personal überfavourites, if such exist within the poetic category. Consequently, my thoughts started eloping. I guess. And I tried my hand at something relatively similar, dealing with the poetic voice, not just the utterings we contribute. I find learning about poetry is easier when one has some direct experience with poetry itself, something specific to relate to. Suppose that's why our lecturer asked, at this very lecture, whether there were people present who write poems themselves, in their spare time. I believe two hands were raised, or something fairly like that, one obviously belonging to myself. But it's a good advice for anyone, to try their hand at writing poetry and thereby perhaps understanding the poetic code. Otherwise interpreting poems will prove extremely complicated. Suppose that is also why many people do find it complicated to interpret in the first place. It's my technique, anyway, but I can't provide a guide as to how to do it. Just got to try, that's all, and there's no guarantee you won't fail. I often do. That's what separates poetry from the other genres, presumably; the ridiculously high percentage of chance that you might actually never get it. A poem has a life of its own and it's not for anyone to conquer. Or fully understand. We are blessed with the opportunity to create, utilizie and yield. Finito. And sometimes, the articles accessible for these purposes turn a bit vicious and run away from us. They escape us; in essence, tone or message. Such are the words. They're magical. They're alive. And Alice Walker at least managed to put that into writing. Interpretation is, again, a whole different matter. What I, on my hand, is attempting to explain is the subjective view on life and the position of the infamous, lyrical I and how they all come together in the mess we call poesy and its relevant techniques. All the while, I admit, trying to interpret Walker. That's how this originated and eventually came into being. Very long, very abstract, cannot be explained; nor is that the intention or the intended purpose. Not with any poem. They're here for our common pleasure. Simply. We are supposed to ride the wave of emotions they provoke, enjoy the mixed appreciation they invoke. Whether they're cruel in intention or meaning or not whatsoever. We are not to look for the basic, deepest, concrete MEANING. Never. Hate that expression, even. Basic real meaning, to write down in a concise three sentences, was constructed sometime by insanely bored professors, longing for the lecture to end. Poems never mean, they exist. And their greatest advantage is that they give readers, writers, and lecturers, the most absolute and unlimited freedom there is. To make them be whatever you want them to be and hold whatever meaning you wish; and that's what they'll mean to you. The aftermath. You ought to read poetry for the breathtaking aftermath and your own reaction. How you can lay yourself on their beds and sleep within their visionary dreams. Such is my reply. And this:

"Poet's Voice"
By Scaramouche, the Po(t)et, and Eternal Lover of Poetry. Proud to call herself parttaker in the maintenance of the genre. Loved that visionary dreams-stuff, by the way.

I don't think when I write
I compose with a strain
yet I speak from my heart
on what therein resides

I don't talk when I listen
I strive to find meaning
and sometimes I do
but more often I'm drifting

The Poems are places
where I find the matters
I once sought to forward
or rendered dismissed

The Poems are mine
a sanctuary to crave
Which I rarely pay visit
but still often leave

I remit the pains
and stock in this storage
poetic transfusions
for winnowing grace

I spot only this
advantageous purpose
that writings be limitless
never may end

My deflected intentions
kept safe with the metre
Regardless of anguish
the retelling continues

My overflowed feelings
superfluous needs
erratic, the senses,
behold I no more

Will you recognise me
when you skim through the ages
whilst you seek all forlorn
whom I strongly resemble

Will you complement me
if receiving my scripture
Will you open the doors
That I closed on myself

Say I entered a room
to be caught in a sentence
left no space for discussions
nor the option to mourn

Said I wondered too far
as I walked in the shadows
I see lyrical mixtures
But what else, I am blind

In my voice, jointly held,
whether processing falsehood
I can alter my view
as I circle the truth

I do write, and I think
it's a phrase I compose
of the paradox throb
taking sides with my heart

And, more on the by-way. The quotation at the very beginning was from "Just a normal day" by Supertramp. FYI. Snatched from the inlay of "Crisis? What Crisis?", and probably some of my favourite lines from a song ever - as written by the human hand. (There I go again; humans! Gotta love the humans!) Consequently, the album where it features was given the honour of being soundtrack to this post. Along with "Breakfast in America". Guess who ordered more nice music right away. Major thanks to the SuperMen! ;) Post composed, late in the evenings from 23.1-25.1. Started off eating rumcakes and finished with a soup. Getting better at nutrition by the hour. Happy friday everyone.