Whirlpool of Lost Knowledge

Sometimes poems burst out of my head in the strangest of times. They form so perfectly and beautifully, but they never make it to paper because they always form in moments when paper is scarce or I haven't access to a medium on which they can thrive. And usually, in these moments, I am caught up with other important things that cannot be delayed. For instance, I may be showering. Whilst the water soaks into my head, a stream of words are formed and molded into the most perfect set of stanzas. I can always envision them floating in sepia backgrounds. The minute the water turns off, the poem is sucked down the drain, along with the water, into a whirlpool of lost knowledge. Cue the sad violin music.

It is honestly the worst thing to happen. 

Today was a different day. I finally caught a poem that tried so hard to escape. I wrote it by a lake during a job hunting mission. As the poem started to form, I dropped everything I had on the nearest table and scribbled furiously into my diary, knowing I looked like a complete freak to all that noticed me in the dark bush far away from most of the happenings. I wrote and wrote and wrote until I felt that I had completed the piece with all the might I could muster. Now, you should know that every time I write a poem, a part of me feels like I deserve some sort of prize because of how profound and deep it is. I am cocky, right? Then the next day I usually dislike the poem and move on to something else. This, my friends, is the famous cycle of the writer.

Nah, I am kidding (lie). Poetry, I believe, is made to service those who write it. And others who happen to like it stay along for the ride. A lot of people I know, besides family members, do not like poetry and it amazes me sometimes when I hear a piece by William Blake or Edgar Allan Poe, and I think it's spectacular and mesmerizing, but they think it is boring, old shit. The first thing that pops into my mind was whether they were paying attention to the words that were spoken and written. Did they understand the message? Did they listen? But then I must remind myself that people have preferences. Just because I like something doesn't mean that others will too. Apart from that obvious message, poetry is a vehicle for dreams and the imagination, just like music and art. People pick what they choose and make it into what suits them best.

Now, I will present the poem I have captured, butterfly net and all, and I hope you come to like it, dear reader, whoever you may be. One thing I have always admired about poetry is its simplicity. Everything is poetry. The trees, the sun, the moon, the half eaten sandwich laying next to your cracked-screen phone. And I always liked that fact that poetry allows you to pick and choose what you like from it, so you may take away a message that resonates with you, whether it be a stanza or a single word. That is part of its magic.

Hunger

When at midnight

gifted rosewood rivers

save dances with the

eternal love of sun

and the beating heart of spirit

It is mist over mountaintops

that fly as the world stops

when the core is carried

to rain and lust and happiness

Life becomes pen scribbles

within the notebook of death...

It belongs to the trembling

hands of children, awaiting

their final breath when

chords snap and fail to sing again

It is time, diminishing with spirit

It is time, diminishing with soul

It is time, the essential hunger...

Welcome!

To all who stumble upon this page, welcome. This blog will focus primarily on poetry, but I will write about anything and everything that piques my interest. Consider this blog a diary (with more of the juicy bits cut out).

So you may be wondering who exactly I am, or maybe you don't really care. To those who have stuck  around, I am pleased to have held your attention. I am the Lady of Birds. What exactly does that mean? Well, it means precisely what it says. The name holds true to itself without support or justification. It is what it is. Now that we have cleared that out of the way, I will present to you the first poem to mark the blessed internet (for maybe the 3rd time? I don't do well with blogging. I typically quit within the the first week). I hope the unpredictable blogging element adds to my mystique.

Anyways, this poem was conceived as of March. It is called "Orchids" though I still don't know why I chose that title.

May came through my window, softly
not wanting to wake the life that
still slept and breathed when 
the world shut down
and the lights of the town
faded in now and forever


It was easy to live and to forget
and to set timetables for things
that haven't happened yet
but were anticipated by the anger
and frustration of the afternoon and
evenings that followed birth
sculpted by the hands of the earth
and shaped to fit a common soul's worth


But as the shift came forward
and all that was accepted became scarce
a beginning was made and an end was reached
and open fields met their breach
to the eyes who saw not love 
but an enemy in life's arms

As time progresses, you may notice a theme within my work. I will let you figure it out on your own. And, you may see that almost every poem I write is written within the bounds of metaphor, except for when it's not, and it becomes evident where the genre and theme lies. And with that, goodnight.