The Mind of a Poet

March 5, 2010 at 10:02 am (The Mind of a Poet) (poetry, Scintillectual)

Because poetry is language, and therefore is thought that is fully formed and intentional, it is powerful on many levels. It is my belief that poetry has power, especially, in the ancient mystical sense–in the sense of naming, of knowing a thing and working a certain will with it. It is because language was seen in this way that Jesus, for example, commanded that the “demons” tell him their name before he dispatched them from the person they were tormenting. This perspective is where invocation, prayer, and ultimately, things like therapy come from. Language has power, both the power to heal–to remove our demons–as well as the power to do harm. Thus, poetry also has the power to heal, to help us make meaning of our experiences, our troubles, our joys, our daily lives. Some time ago, I began to write poems about second chances, about reunions and coming together to heal and create new love, new life. I believe a part of myself was aware that I was sorting through some unresolved love, some missed opportunities [with the same person] and, perhaps, even attempting to call into being the very opportunities about which I was also thinking as I re-examined some aspects of my life. Some of those poems will show up here. But, this week’s offering is the first poem I wrote for Scintillectual after we made the decision to see where our renewed relationship would take us. This poem feels very much like a kind of culmination of all the other conscious, but subconscious, poems that preceded it. I hope you will like it. I hope, too, that Scintillectual is as happy as I am to share it here. It is for her, for all that we share…and, for starting anew, each day, I hope for a long, long time.

Something More Than Promise

I will court you in ways unlike
the others who came in their fevered
immaturity making pledges, but did not
stay—leaving you with promises unfulfilled,

forgotten flannel shirts, the odd sock,
and a ghost-like hurt that wakes before you,
stares at you in the mirror, walks the halls,
then lays its empty chill beside you.

At your garden’s edge, I will build
the cairn of my steadfastness. I will
stack it well with native garnet, granite,
and rocks the river polished long for us.

In the dark night, I will place my warmth
beside you, whisper my intentions—telling you
tales of our life together until they come to be
like live dreams holding hands, rocking slowly

on the porch swing—the rhythm of all things
our rhythm as we age. When morning comes

spilling early sun through the window, I will
still be here beside you, bearing something more
than promise. Around your room, I will
leave hand-written notes on textured paper,

the edges torn like beautiful scars softened
by the words they wear. I will accept you,
the offerings you bring, the love you bear
as the things they are—entities, living things

deserving of regard like a fiery sunset
on the ocean waves: orange, red, and pink
assurance of the essence that is all things,
even us. We will sit at the table I have made

for us from raw wood stained and sanded
to shine satin in the light of our days together.
I will plant for you lilies and irises to fill the view
from the kitchen window—we will watch

as moonlight, sun, rain, and snow bathe the cairn
that is ever there, so much more than promise.

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