L'aura del Campo

Dear Ruth (poem)

Dear Ruth

         with apologies to any number of poets

I'm a poet.
I weave rhythms and rhymes,
from natural images,
warped inner mind.

So know it.

I don't give a f*** about style,
the          sculpt  perfect    line,
prOper cApitAlizAtion,
pun.ctuat;ion.
the crime

of versed curses
some would call

p
o
e
t
r
y.

Then owe it

         to me
to tell them the truth:
the pen is a weapon,
it slices my ruth

ruth: noun: a feeling of sympathy and sorrow for the misfortunes of others

from what's gleefully given
to grow poems
for free.

Bestow them.

I sow
what I'll never see:
my words bearing fruit,
leaves of grass,
lovely trees.

© Kåre Enga [164.108] 07-06-07

IMAGES:

There's a scar: light ochre, gritty, raw ... that creeps along the valley floor, now seen, weeps from the hillside that once was green.

Fragrances plucked and put in my pockets: feverfew; privet; fleabane; garlic; tangy coreopsis; a globe of peach rose; heavy scented rosa rugosa (?); catalpa; pale indigo pin-cushion flower; pinks; gaillardia; blue sage; anemone; hydrangea; daylily; purple petunia.

OVERHEARD:

"Fresh meat on the paw", Hub re squirrel.

"You're just jealous because we don't call you 'Baby Cakes'", Carol to me!

READING:

Deborah Keenan: Willow's Room Green Door

Miyazawa Kenji: "November 3rd"

ame ni mo makezu
kaze ni mo makezu

David Kirby: "The Hand of Fatima"

THOUGHTS:

Tma ahd de rúkap strarakkap anús.

I could write On the Narrow Path of the Soul. It could be a series of prose and poems, kinda like Basho's voyage to the North. "Like tendrils of grapes we reach out to each other, grasp heartbeat's embrace." I already write poems that speak to my wanderings and the wonderment of life when I'm not raging about the inanity and insanity of it all. Perhaps I could just set a down a structure, like a haibun, that will allow me to chart the course of an inner journey.

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