then I'd know where I was and how far I had got

Poetry
is not luxury.
Audre Lorde, Chosen Poems, Old and New, 1982

5 comments:

Hopper said...

It is a part of the breath of life. It is a necessity.

human being said...

hey Harlequin...
who's this guy? he's stolen this from me... you too, Jon...

STEALING.... hehehehe...
:D


part of?
it's the savior!


where... how far...
now your meta-mathematics come to help, Jon...
:)

Derliwall said...

Just like the arts aren't useless university degrees...

You're right Jon....an ingredient of life itself.

Jon said...

HB

I don't know about all the stealing... and I think this is a part of my dilemma from some other posts...

you saying all poets are a thief...

maybe that's the way it is...

so then who says new words?

or do we just say old words in such a way they're made new?

this seems closer to me...

so how can one steal words?

I do believe strongly that it is important to choose words carefully, and that words have the capacity to change... but I don't think that's done by caging words and holding them captive... we should set them free... I read so many words... I try to listen to all the voices... but how can I do that the justice it deserves...

this is my problem... so many voices are lost... how do I get those back???

I try as well as I can to reference where my ideas come from... I try to credit my friends... and why shouldn't I... they are my friends...

Do you know where I'm going with this...?

how far does it go?

when is it me talking and when is it someone else?

this may sound a bit crazy and maybe too much like Beckett...

sorry for that...

any ideas you've got I'd love to hear

Harlequin said...

Audre Lorde is a feminist writer... black, lesbian, scorned... long dead...
bold as brass and absolutely unapologetic about using language as the mighty tool ... and weapon... that it is. She was one of the earliest to use the phrase "this is the language of the oppressor but I must use it to speak with you"... and she also agonized over the use of words, who, if anyone " owns " them..., when am I the oppressor, in spite of my best intentions...how it is my responsibility to be
vigilant and disciplined... yet, how carefully I must go when I presume to wield words in the service of purposes I am sure are pure... as if another poet's efforts with words could be so easily dismissed as only a way to get from here to there... and here I am ... I, too agonize.... it is inevitable... the call of word...its blissful fire...