writing essence

writing-essence
Unless you’re burdened with a weight upon your shoulders,
a rumble in your belly that makes those near you quake and tremble,
hands that shake like a fein waiting for their fix,
and this happens daily, repetitively, perpetually,
ever a marriage you cannot divorce from,
you’re not writing from the seed of your creation.

There is a place for you still,
but it is not amongst those of us who need the nucleus of truth,
who care not if it means dousing ourselves and striking the match,
just to free a waft of poetic incense into the air of your doubt.

Confidence scares people,
foresight terrifies them,
intuition will make them think you’re a sorcerer,
and all this time, you’re just alone enough to hear the voices they quell.

Crack open the nut and cloak in the Qit-meer of truth
W.E.

Glossary
Qit-meer is the word for a lace like barrier that exists between a date seed and the date fruit. It is the filter like, one way passage that sucks all the bitter marrow out of the fruit and passes it through into the seed. Try as you may, a date is unbearable when it is unripe, but once the Qit-meer’s job is done, it is oft forgotten as the martyr that allowed you to enjoy a fruit of immeasurable benefit. Sweetness is often the extrovert, whilst the introvert who absorbed it all remains pale and fragile, withered and forgotten.

metaphor of words

dictionary

Do you ever feel like you have to define words, concepts things for yourself with such magnitude you become lost in the process and end up writing poetry?

That’s what I have found I have been stuck in for the greater part of my life.
All this unwritten stuff, the experiences of my life, stuck in the quicksand of me and now, it forces its way out.

This propulsion towards distilling the mud of all that I have come to know, to churn the butter, filter to an elixir, wipe the table of knowing, clean for another loaf to knead.

This bread may or may not be enough to feed me, but secretly in the depths of murky cavities, in the pits of my ego, I want others to eat from it.

I find myself smirking at others when I read they want to romanticise the reasons they write as being ‘for themselves’. I don’t believe that, I can’t believe that, perhaps because as much as I’d like to join them in their frivolous narcissism, I have been acquainted with the gnaw of my ego for too long.

We write to be heralded as writers, to be heard, to make acquaintance with other egos and perhaps then, the real test begins. Are we willing to pacify our ego and quell it towards the quiet of humility or does it become supercharged to inflated proportions? I believe the death of a writer is in the later, and the growth comes in the former. You may write a blockbuster, but you’ll probably write mediocre shit after that if you let it get to your head.

It seems that I have automatically steered myself to a process of distilling my existence through words. Filtering out all the useless, making way for definitions, anecdotes, musings, aphorisms and litanies of comprehension to write my own dictionary of words and meanings.

I find myself zeroing in on a word only then to magnify it, draw brainstormed stalactites falling off the word, resembling mental bominockers, and have them float in the orbit of my mind until they attract and associate other words, meanings, experiences and so on.

When those bominockers are complete, they break out of orbit, spill on to paper or speech and settle into the pages of me. A weight, ironically taken out of a weightless orbit, settled into belly and regurgitated when needed.

How on earth can a thought, an emotion, a word heard make us feel so heavy if it is not for the allegories we create in our mind of what they mean. Why does our heart sink when we hurt and juxtaposingly, when we love? What is it about hearing those words or feeling those emotions that conjures sinking if not this metaphorical association?

Perhaps some writers do this more than others, or can illicit it in others more than some writers and why we take to them more than others.

What I do know, is I can smell an unimaginative one who has taken no time with themselves a mile away. Who’s in love with the idea of writing but doesn’t read, doesn’t write several times a day and can’t weave in palatable ideas into their writing.

Perhaps find something else to do, not that it bothers me you keep writing meaningless shit, perhaps all of this is in fact a note to myself and my soul is tired of my minds squabble and ego’s stench.

-W.E.

By extension by featheredsleep

For half wits who think they can just fart their fantasies on a page and label themselves a writer. I’m fucking thirty eight, been writing since I was eleven years of age and will only consider myself a writer when I’ve written a handful of books that sell a few hundred thousand copies at least. Until then, I’m just a prattler with a pen.
Don’t be a wanker with a pen,  learn something, or better yet read something and indirectly learn how to meter words, sentences, cut out fodder, and write something other than a porn mags regurgitation.

The piece is by a talented lady who’s alias is ‘featheredsleep’ on WordPress. If you like the written word, she’s got tonnes of it. Check her out if you have some time.

By extension – http://wp.me/p5J4qO-Kq

Giving birth to the earth

sadness

 

Sadness;
The moment where words that lived with me so long,

Leave.

They stand at the departure gate of my lips,
And you know,
Once they turn their back,
It will be moments before they take flight,
To belong in someone else’s home.

Words, those gypsies,
Finding new homes,
Were they ever meant to depart,
And leave me alone?

They’re the children you give birth to,
And live with you for all those years,
Then one day, they leave you,
Awash with loneliness’s tears.

But a writer is fertile,
Always able to fall pregnant,
Our bellies are always swollen with words,
Waiting to give birth,
Always rotund, large of girth,
In one parable, one paragraph,
Back bent with the weight of the earth.
It’s a labour of love,
This labour of a lifetimes worth,
For the one line,
Sometimes a lifetime,
We’ll wait, we’ll search.
We’re not just writing, speaking, prattling,
With our words,
We’re giving birth,
To the earth.

-W.E.

Poets Cup

poets cup

Were it not for a poets cup being small,
None of you would taste our wine,
Alas we fill and goblets fall,
Spill our hearts through ancient vine.
‘Tis not the wine of absent mind,
But the elixir of word-smith kind,
Of hearty matter,
Of earthly grind.
Be at the tavern, be with the divine,
There you’ll see us, there you’ll find.
And all will be revealed,
Refill and spill, until the end of time.

-W.E.

The drink is forbidden for us and we pour endless poetry.
Whilst you drink your hearts content and pasture with cattle.
The dignity is in holding yourself together, fort-like in any situation, head bowed in gratitude in humble recognition.
Leave the drop for the numb and in pain.
Connect through the well worn paths, travelling alone never amounted to anything but time wasting and frivolous ego entertainment.
In spite of being on the brethren’s paths, it is still you, alone in your affairs, accomplishing what others would not dare.

Words, really don’t matter

words dont matter
The most beautiful poetry I ever came across
bared no words

-W.E.

What do words matter when your spine shows the decay of life’s weight baring?
What do they matter when your feet are dry from walking the arid land of dry souls?

What do words matter when they can’t weigh up to the scars of do, doing and done?

Words are pretty butterfly’s in the hurricane of devastation, no one gives a fuck about the pretty butterfly, when the aftermath is destruction, when there is work to be done at rebuilding life.

The saying goes, ‘The ink of a scholar is weightier than the blood of martyrs’, but I say the sweat of your brow, tips the scale against them both.

I pride myself on being able to combine words like a poetry king when in reality, I’m no where near mastering the art of doing.

-W.E.