The Beauty of Language Lost on the Student

"I read it...I just want you to tell me what it means..."

“Why do authors say things in such complicated ways?”
A question in Lit class, heard on most days.
“Why can’t they just turn the simple phrase
In their short stories, and novels, and poems, and plays?”

© 2009, Jeff Wilson

Fear of Intimacy

I just don't know if I can SLAM...

I don’t want to memorize my poems.
I don’t ever want that kind of intimacy
with anyone or anything, other than my wife.
I don’t want to caress the subtle inflections
In tone and pitch born of original spin.
I don’t want to nibble on the lobes of
Self-serving word play as some kind
Of hopeful, analytical foreplay, nor
Scrutinize the acrobatics of mind and tongue
as written word is given voice – for better or worse.
I’m not comfortable with the carnal knowledge
Sprung from exploring lexicon, slowly, deeply, explicitly –
confidential conversations with myself
committed to paper and, thusly,
bound by the bulky, unflattering bodice
of two dimensions.
Upon the recital of each uncertain stanza,
Each line lacking that little something,
Each loose syllable, would I not confront,
headlong, my own performance anxiety?
Was it good for you?
Was it good for me?
Always examining my awkward alliteration
And perfunctory pace and mundane mechanics.
Never quite happy with the way I’ve dressed my words
Or the way we relate to each other – the way we don’t
Talk for days, weeks, years sometimes.
And asking myself ,
“Why couldn’t IT have been something…special?”
It’s not you, poems. It’s me. I’m sorry.
I just can’t do this anymore.
Let’s just be friends.
I’ll always carry a little
Piece of you...in my pocket
But I can’t, and I won’t, commit you to memory;
I’m not able to know you by heart,
Because mine belongs to another.

© 2009, Jeff Wilson

The Individual Writer

This started as a recruitment poem for Writers' Club.

The individual writer, a solitary stylus
Yearning to give life to internal beast
Made of urgent perspective kneaded
In the soul and exposed to the yeast
Of creative thought and passionate feeling
That leaves the head spinning
And the heart tugged or reeling.
The individual writer, a solitary stylus
The individual writer, someone to rile us.

The individual writer, to challenge the brain
His or her own, or one that needs learning;
Idea-exposure, like some kind of x-ray
That penetrates flesh, leaves no trace of burning,
But draws a clear picture of inner design
Reveals one’s hidden inherent strength
Or identifies flaws in skull or spine
The individual writer, to challenge the brain
The individual writer, can move or entertain

The individual writer makes simple something more:
An abused orphan becomes wizard supreme;
No, not a horse, but a metaphor for spirit;
A journey through Wonderland instead of a dream.
The mind, heart, and soul – served from a golden plate
When a writer shapes feelings and thoughts to words
And a reader restores them to their original state
The individual writer makes simple something more
The individual writer not only fashions but opens the door.

© 2009, Jeff Wilson