We Seek Our Kind

why poets seek other poets

We Seek Our Kind

for J

I read your words, friend, and truly know,
   from the resonance of something interior and the cadence
of images that you understand what it means to live
   with the fear of the dark always under your skin:
that one day, despair may corner you at your own
   personal Appomatox. Surrender- divided self- to madness.
 
Cynics- those who misconstrue value as dollars and sense-
    tell us to not read too much into another’s work,
things are not always what they seem. You cannot judge sincerity.
   Oh really? I wonder, because it was so easy with you
to slip into your mind, and take that whirlwind penny tour

with you, through redemption and hope and dancing on the wind
   but also into the quiescent place where your sensitive heart
seems to possibly never have quite healed from the wounds
  an unjust world inflicted upon you and yours. I teeter on the brink-
so easy to fall. Your words- like windows inside that even eyes can hide.

To the cynics I proclaim, loudly, in thunderous voice:
  You obviously know not the value of catharsis, the necessity
To document what you see even as you wish you could walk away
   shield your vision, or otherwise disappear from the poetry of life.
We know- we seek our kind- because, from early age, we heard,

“I just do not get what you mean” and “ Why can’t you speak clearly?”
      and we hold the language of the universe in our hearts, but our mates
say, “so what?” when we describe the sunset over the mountain in perfection,
   or spend days contemplating coyote howls in the wilderness, or
 document in written flesh the pain of losing a child, our Selves the thing we lost

precariously along the way, seeking what everyone seeks:
   simply to understand, and be understood, for what good is the language
of the heart if there is none to share it? An audience is great, but
   when all is said and done, at the end of the night, the bed is cold
with a partner who cannot reach inside and feel your soul.

We find each other to warm us on those nights- it’s only the most natural,
   logical, and for me, easiest, thing in the world to do; to reach out
and offer what’s inside to one  like you- who can accept this gift,
    and give it back to me in another form, altered in fascinating ways
by its stay within your creative cortex and neuronal input.
  That is why we seek our kind- for no other reason than to simply

feel some of that humanity slip under our skin when all else
   is madness, and the world spins out of control. I could very easily
I think fall completely for one such as you. You just do understand.

  and I do not fear the unspoken truth- that the deeper one delves

into darkness of words, the closer to the heart one must be to living

  the Hell, and transcribing a real vision, not one imagined by eyes that

 

have not seen. For that understanding- I could risk the fact you may

              indeed be drawing your sketches from real life.

                      Let the cynics enter at their own risk.


 

Author's Note

I started pondering why it is so easy for poets to fall for other poets... even with the danger that their gifts of insight often come with a very heavy price on the spirit and sanity, and sometimes the world is not what it seems.

Reviews

[cest la vie]

Damn girl,
(oops repeated Jamie below on openers) How did you manage to encapsulate the poets quest so eloquently. I do not consider myself a poet, merely a thought scribbler. Yet it seems we (poets, authors, ink spillers) have reached that interior place of emotion some others either are afraid to enter or can't find the door. Like attracts like.. So insanity, sanity, no-man's land who's to say why and how. Just we do. This is absolutely a pivotal piece for me. So thought provoking, written with depth, questions to ponder. I love a write that makes me take another look. This is one such write.

[Marie Anzalone]

you are another one, dear Lynne, that I miss so very much. Your words always brought such warmth and light into dark places. Remember when me and you and Lonestar and Rainman planned a cross-country trip that fell apart at the last minute? How often have I imagined in my mind that we took it, anyway. That LS found peace, that RM remembered how to laugh and let go. That you and I just snuck away for ice cream, because, well, boys are just plain bizarre. I need someone dark enough to get me, still... but also in love with life enough to be willing to live it with me. I seemed to have missed that part, before. But... you knew that, because you tried to rescue as many as I did. Lord, it hurts to recall some things. Part of me will always walk that beach in Maine with the three of you, wondering, "what if...?"

[caesarkreshen]

I should put this on a reading list and never review it. lol. I don't fall for other poets, I give my muses poetic glows.

That being said:

I am interested in this poem. The first part that I felt was out of place was "whirlwind penny tour."

Cynicism is a spice of life. I read this, I understand. No other comment, but I should leave before I my cynicism gets me killed.

[Marie Anzalone]

thanks for the honesty of your review. it is a spice, I agree. But it can quickly overwhelm a dish of not used properly and tempered with others. I never was one to equate cynicism with either sophistication or wisdom. But what do I know.. except that things are a lot less lonely when you look for similarities instead of divisions.

Appreciate the review, caeser. thank you.

[h d e rushin]

Plath was so happy to be living in Yeats' house. Happier than her marriage. Happier than her kids
could make her. And before everything would unravel, the veridical, truthful, non-illusory events of
seeking out, living and loving another poet was the appeal that led to her withdrawal. Poets can be
a******s too. That is understood.

But it is also understood that you are the finest poet on earth and the greatest story teller.
And i'm not being at all cynical...

tremendous
dana

[Marie Anzalone]

I am a poet. I have always been a poet. I tried living with a novelist once, and that did not work. I tried living with men with no literary sense at all. Those times were far worse. I am convinced you at least need to be willing to speak each other's heart language. Writers can be crueler than others for the sheer fact that they undress you in layers when they fight. They know all your secret vulnerabilities. The a*****e is the person willing to use them in a fight. The god is the one willing to use them to build you up. Most of us are some combination of the two, I think.

thank you for your words, dana. Today is a tough word day, and I needed this reminder form you, for why I write.

[Larry Dyson]

yes...it is always skewed toward the poetry ..in real life symbiosys....becoming the things we write about...

[Through the Gateway]

Such an eloquently written piece, Marie. How else to let another poet know that you understand each other than to pen beauty in verse?

We truly do seek our own...those that reach out into the fevered darknesses of our minds and find beauty in the cynical corners of everyone's thoughts. Why do we not find partners, then, who understand what it means to be wrapped in emotions so great that we must view them through endless sunrises?

A wonderfully written piece. Very beautiful.

[hoyt]

Wonderful write! and so true and thought provoking. There is a unique intimacy among writers and artists, that allows the sharing of life, pleasure and pain, tears and laughter, raw emotions. I think it is simply the openness and that we are outside the box, or have just busted the damn box up that should never have been made in the first place. Our spirits speak the same language.
Yes, very good poem illustrating that very truth so well. Great job!

[Jenny Nelson]

Exactly! Well said after what seems to be quite a bit of introspect. We do seem to be a different breed and you explained it quite thoroughly, specifically, and powerfully. An excellent piece here.

[Emily B]

To continue the civil war reference, from Edgar Lee Master's "Silence"

And the old soldier is struck with silence,
Or his mind flies away
Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.
It comes back jocosely
And he says, "A bear bit it off."
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier
Dumbly, feebly lives over
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,
The shrieks of the slain,
And himself lying on the ground,
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,
And the long days in bed.
But if he could describe it all
He would be an artist.
But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds
Which he could not describe.


Whenever I see something flowing from my pen that I think is too personal to ever share, I know that it has to be thrust upon the world that much sooner. The 'dark' places must all be revealed, the shadows illuminated, the secrets all shared.

Wonderful write.

[Marie Anzalone]

I like to re-read old reviews sometimes... I wanted to tell you, in case I did not before- how much this meant to me, and impacted me, when I first read it. It perfectly fit both the poem and the person it was written for, in so many ways. Thank you, again.

[Emily B]

the whole poem is a miracle in itself, i recommend "silence" to all the poets i know, it is to me what all poets should aspire to

[Marie Anzalone]

funny how things come full circle, isn't it? what is a loving space held with any other human being, but the offer to share another's solitude without intruding. You do indeed need to understand the value of silence for that. the words fit up, down, sideways, past, present, and future.

[Emily B]

i keep thinking of the words . . .

There is the silence of a great hatred,
And the silence of a great love,
And the silence of an embittered friendship.
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,
Comes with visions not to be uttered Into a realm of higher life.
There is the silence of defeat.
There is the silence of those unjustly punished
And the silence of the dying whose hand
Suddenly grips yours.
There is the silence between father and son,
When the father cannot explain his life,
Even though he be misunderstood for it.

There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.
There is the silence of those who have failed;
And the vast silence that covers
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.
There is the silence of Lincoln,
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.
And the silence of Napoleon
After Waterloo.
And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc
Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus" -
Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope.
And there is the silence of age,
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it
In words intelligible to those who have not lived
The great range of life.

[Marie Anzalone]

I will carry these words with me for the rest of the day... they are speaking to us both for a reason.

[Georgia Gypsy]

Oh this is very insightful and deep!!
i especially like the line ~the bed is cold with a partner who cannot reach inside and feel your soul~
this is so true!
As to why poets fall for other poets, i'm reading a book that deals with that 'The Artist Way' by Julia Cameron, she says 'artists love other artists'....we are drawn to one another for the reason of same interests, or unrealized dreams. Who better to understand than another who is so very like us yet different?

This is a great write! I really love it!!!

[Doctor JKC]

Firstly, I must say I love your play list/play lust.

Untrue poets make no friends; they can't stand the naked
unabashed truth. They make up at least 95% of this site.

I love the civil war reference; it still rages.

I believe we must be as honest as possible.
It's our only weapon or foil.

I love tis piece!
Jack
And the audience is slim and an ignorant pest.
Cowboy hucksters,