The meaning of Poetry (or any good story)

[Frank]

THE MEANING OF POETRY

Step one - read this poem by former poet laureate of the USA Billy Collins
Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to water-ski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Step two - Read my take on this poem

I think that too many people read a poem and right away want to know what it means.
A poem is an experience, a thrill ride at an amusement park, a sensual pleasure like a good cigar or a fine wine. Sip it, taste the flavor and if you don’t like it spit it out. End of story - no need to know “what it means”- FRANK
Now having said that I will present my poem but I will not tell you what it means.

Step three - read my poem and tell me what you think

2 Living breathing Poems by Frank

I have to say I was not thinking
of poetry, but there she was
in the grocery store, discussing produce
prices with her son who was hoping
to survive the ordeal. We passed
each other, she was going one way and I the other
the way was narrow,
so I let her go first,
I extended my arms out
as if holding a door open for her and
strangely enough, she noticed and rewarded me
with a ‘thank you young man’. I especially liked
the way she said young, reminding me
of days long past when I did hold open doors
for older ladies. Some time later, same store, same day,
same two people pass again. We do the same dance,
even though we are now going back the other way,
each of us having reversed our direction,
this time there is only ‘thank you again.’ but I am happy
with that. Her son comes rushing up her, hands in air,
there you are, he tells her (as if she did not know).
He tells her they are done, she says good, can we go get our
food now. He says, yes I think it is ready now.
Now I am in the parking lot, loading my car, I see her again
she is standing in front of the Chinese take-out joint,
looking like she has lost something but I know it is not her sense
she may be silver in hair and slight, but there is still sparklers
lit in those eyes. No, she has lost her son, who stands four car
spaces away loading his or is it hers ? groceries in their car.
Neither can see the other, but I, the poet can see them both.
As the poet, I wonder how this will end, should I interfere,
or leave it to the imagination of the reader ? No, I think the
reader deserves closure and while I am thinking that she discovers
where he is and waves and then goes into the Chinese joint.
I don’t know what happened next as I drove away but you
the reader deserve some sort of an ending so, as I am walking back
from the car to my house, a very young lady rides her training wheel
equipped bike up to me and says “hello.” and I say hello back
and then she says “goodbye.” and rides away.

[Francesca]

Dear Frank and Angie,

1.
As a child I was a butterfly,
scared out of my wits
when the tide run high...
as a dolphin, in my second life,
I enjoyed being tickled
by the waves.

2.
Contrasts of conditions
and a dreamy state
was all I have hungered for
since I came into being.

3.
Now you know something
I did not know myself
before plunging into the braw sea
of long gone memories.

It sounds like half a confession, but it just came that way and I really don't know what I am confessing!!:-)

Love,
Francesca

[Frank]

Francesca - that is a wonderful poem
Sorry it took me so long to say so.

Anyway, here is a new bunch

Spirit

Cannot be, because we
cannot see
touch taste or feel, yet
grows in units of love

Spirit

She dances in floors of her mind
whirling about in uncertain time
exotic yet alluring
to all

Spirit

Any who say theirs is the way
forget that spirit flows
like water down a hill
relentlessly alive and eventual
arriving at the bottom, the end
no matter what path it takes

[Francesca]

I love it, Frank,

especially the last stanza... maybe it's even something I wanted to hear somebody say!
Can I copy it into my journal?

Disorientation and Tenderness
1.
You know,
sometimes it's just like being
in a supermarket, in the frozen foods section
where all looks still dead
and nobody cares about your and their quixotic selves...

2.
then, I see you at a distance,
in the gardening section, smiling on the plants
with your mild, clever eyes
and all is well again.

3.
Did I wrote something that hurt?
Something that made you feel naked?
If so, I apologize and give you
my hand:
I wanna be your friend

4.
Always, when I write, I am stabbing
my soul out of my mind.
And I won't deny
I have been looking for an accomplice reader
all the time!

This was for you Frank,

F

[Frank]

Wow, that was great, Francesca
even if it was for me
and yes you can copy any and all

The Tree

has always been there
in the yard - when I was small
it held me in its arms
safe
and I climbed high in the tree
saw new visions, nearly fell
but the tree's arms caught me
so I climbed again
. . .
I left the yard behind, far behind
and wandered about and years passed
I forgot about the tree or I thought the tree
would always be there when I returned

Now, I stand where once was it
there is no hole, only sod
no marker to tell the casual stroller
about this place of childhood wonder
I heard a storm had blown it away
ripped out of the ground
a piece of me no longer earth bound
gone yet I still say - thank you tree
for the time you spent with me

[Francesca]

I also got memories about a tree....

It is an old oak that I still see
at night
wrapped up in the dark blue,
caressed by the light
of the stars

it is somebody
I went to
for refuge and solace
and he never betrayed
my childish face

He's also gone away
into the far space of dreams
and wonder:
a thunderstroke did the job
as quick as lightning

In his place, last summer,
I saw a few green stalks...
I never thought it would happen again
and yet
that spot was blossoming
again

Thank you Frank for sharing this beautiful poem about a precious memory!

[Frank]

I wrote a reply to this about a week ago but I think that the site ate it - oh well.
I love your tree poem, Francesca.

[Frank]

The Doorway

He stood in the doorway
my thought was whether
his present presence put
forth welcome or disdain

His frame leaned casual
in its frame, settling in my mind
as one - they belonged together
as would bee and hive

Ideas flocked to my skull
as to how I should approach
later was out of both the question and any answer
I might receive - I had come too far

one more step, then his eyes took
notice of me, causing his form to stand
erect with a blossoming smile
Welcome - he said -we've been waiting for you.

No hesitation came forth from me
no pause to consider his intent
only mine desire to be within
guided my feet that night

What happened next is in another poem
for this be about entering
the doorway that looms
with the doorman's smile so bright

[Francesca]

Hi Frank!

I like this "threshold" poem... actually I am wondering whether you could you write a poem about ritual for me? I was just thinking that ritual is a threshold to some other dimension.
Just now I am thinking about short-stories and ritual: how they can interact. Maybe your inspired view of things could help me penetrate the mystery... thank you a lot!

Francesca

[Frank]

Doomsday drags me out of bed
makes sure that I am fed

Points me in the direction of tomorrow
Uses yesterdays as reminders of sorrow

I find myself dancing to the call of a thousand no-bodies
Each telling me their way - I am doomed to stumble

Day after day - a yet there is another way - another light
something so simple, that it seems hard to do

Listen to the soul - listen to the light - stay out all night
rejoice in the moment - there is no wrong or right

A thousand other voices show the way
be here, be happy, be gone dooms day

[Frank]

Emerging

After staring at thousands of reflections
The image I see is me
There is nothing missing
nothing I have to find
Nothing I have to hide

[Frank]

Grieving

The Greatest Pain
in all the world
is believing you are alone
Cut off from everyone
feeling the immortal loss of love

You have left me
and the void blinds me
I am alone
surrounded by darkness
Nothing will be the same