I had a dream about a gathering of poets.
All anxious to see others’ work
One stretched his neck to read my scrawl but
All I had on my page was what I’d studied about
The hard work not yet done
The hoped-for work
Put off for
The hunch that this self needed to grow up (more) in order to produce.
I awoke with my self still attached.
Come to find that its place and presence doesn’t so much need reckoned with
Other than to be taken captive and hushed
Yes, it’s already in the art by virtue of its inextricably bound contact
But this is no mystery needing solved.
That examination can (blessedly) be over.
The self need not be a major player:
Noticed, stroked, hailed for its presence among us.
It needs only to record its findings
Is needed only to examine spaces, places, abiding mercies
And share what it’s found.
The artist’s generosity is in communicating
Souls have value:
Let’s not dispute that.
Questioning the validity of their voices
Wasn’t the dream
The discovery and unpacking of those voices
As they reflect all the goodness of their Creator’s the dream.
Little mirrors co-creating in honor of the One artist.
The unexamined life may not be worth living
But that may also be true of the morbidly examined one
So intent upon its own navel that life
Is lost on it.
And this isn’t to devalue our personhood:
Rather it is the reinforcement of it.
See! and then Share!
Have a peek at my scribbles
I’ll peek at yours
And may there be something to see:
Some connective tissue from a
Personhood all intact.
Adding to the beauty
Reflecting things true and needful
And so see the world through another lens
– His –
Ah, the dream of poets.