Epiblog

A dear friend was expressing her thoughts about my poetry blog and she asked a wonderful yet seemingly simple question, "Do you feel exposed?" At that moment, I responded that I did not feel this so much, attributing this to having been previously published. But later, I thought about posting some very recent poems and I realized that if I shared them now, I would indeed feel exposed. A fellow poet with whom I confessed my apprehension, reviewed these recent works. My question was this, "Do you think these poems are too personal?" Her response to me was the following:

"Unless you are in your poems, they will not have the life you intend for them…[the poems would be] like motherless children."

"Humm…" I thought, "So true."

I decided not to make these works public just yet. One day, they may find a place in the outside world, but for now they remain as "conversations between close friends".

And so this helps to conclude the section on Colors and the blog with a previously published poem from "Missives" (Codhill Press, 2009). It is still very personal.

Grey

Worried that the light will fade 

without an eye to see its passing.

And the last utterance

will be inaudible.

Worried that we will not notice 

the fade from green to grey.

Worried that we will not recognize 

that She is gone

and that we are alone—

wondering who we are.

White

One day
gazing up into the bluest of blues
I saw a something
small and white,
    drifting…
It was
so far, so small in size
a glimmer to my eyes
just a speck of bright white,
          drifting…
No form
could be distinguished
Just a movement,
twinkling, star-like,
               drifting…
Is it governed by will
    or current’s whim?
It spiraled,
circled,
                    drifting…
Then another
joined in jest
and put my query
to the test
“It is will and whim”,
    I guessed.

They
spiraled,
circled,
                         drifting…

Black

Black is fluid
    with movement full and wide
Etching dryness with its dampness
Impregnating the open.

As tears well in eye’s lowered lid
Concealing the revealing
    of the open.

Black flows

A thick, dark stream
    carrying suffering seed.
Implanted in the heart—
    in the open.

Colors

As a painter, I have learned to see color with more precision and confronted the many ways in which color is used to convey form, light, weight, and movement. I have explored color as symbol and science and yet it evades me. Color, like sound, is vibration. Each exists in relation to all the other colors. Each hue is part of a whole—the spectrum of light. How much of this spectrum are we able to see? Science says that we only see a fraction.

There is more to explore. But, for now, I will let the poems and images do their work.

Blue

Blue is empty
Endless
Light

I absorb it through my pores, my nerves.

All my tendrils extend
to meet its coming arrival.

I drink it in rhythm
through the core at the center

Expanding and contracting
with its far-ness and near-ness.

The Verge

On the brink.

I wait.

For a shimmer,
a glimmer,
a sound.

I wait.

Poised
to receive
that which
is yet to be.

I wait.

Without despair
or hope.

I wait.

On the verge.

Drops

The drops descend
one by one
markedly,
deliberately,
with benevolence.

And trust to be received
wholeheartedly,
by one who dares to love.

The drops descend
one by one
easing the way open
markedly,
deliberately.

To prepare the one
for the torrent
of grace yet to come.

The drops descend
one by one
to compose
one’s tears
of love
in kind.

 

Link

A ramshackle life I lead.
Minced away by time’s indifference.
Caring only for that single thread.
A line of hope.
Linking.