
This morning I was reading a collection of poems my friend has recently written. My responses were immediate and genuine. Yet, he doubted the worth of his work and his own creative voice. As poets, we are susceptible to imagining we are frauds and soon will be found out!
Maybe poets aren't the only ones who think they are frauds. I believe all of us often question our own worth. We couch our words in politeness and diplomacy hoping to keep everybody happy. We dare to speak truthfully only when we are very confident that we will not be rejected. As the number of days alloted to me grows smaller, I'm risking more, speaking words that seem important to me while I have the chance. Some honest reflection on the reasons for my speaking and the truth of my perception is required. And I notice that a funny thing happens when I speak what is my truth. Others do, too!
Here's a poem on this theme:
freedom
in those days the poet
imagined himself to be
the hermit
cloistered away
in a monastery
in far off mountains
an ascetic
trying not to be
somebody else or
perhaps to be every one else
to be unknown
to live nowhere and everywhere
to think in original words
in the language on loan
to him alone
creating itself;
to fast and to be
nourished
on breath and visions
inside his being
until god found him
or he discovered god
in all ways and places
and people
but then it is his own knowing
and now he could speak
or not
- pab © april 2016 -