For the past few hours, I have been reading and studying poetry. I don't consider myself a poet even though a few of my poems have been published. One thing that has struck me is that a poem is written from an idea, not a theme or topic, but an idea. (Okay I am hearing weird noises. I don't have the radio or tv on, but I hear music.) I'm reading the "Art and Craft of Poetry" by Michael Bugeja. I have also been reading books on poetry written by my friend, Harvey Stanbrough aaaannnnddd getting ready to listen to some poets read their work from the "Poetry Speaks" series. My friend, Robert Ferrier, another poet, turned me on to the series. I am particularly interested in hearing Sylvia Plath read her work. I have been drawn to her for some time now. Perhaps it is because I am trying to understand her suicide.
When I think of Sylvia Plath, I think about my great, great, great, grandmother who hung herself in the barn. She left a suicide note, which I was able to read part of. Its content raged of people not understanding, yet how she couldn't go on with the emotional pain she was suffering.
As I get older and face more situations in my own life, I feel as if I am beginning to understand their desperation. Not to worry readers. I am not out to commit hairy cairy, just trying to understand. My motto has always been "as long as you're alive things can change and usually do in a short amount of time".
Off to listen to some poetry read by some of the great poets--and to find out what the heck that blasted noise is. Will write more tomorrow.
Til Then~