ToThePoem - a place for poetry

When time moves Past that of light and measure,  Close up that gap,  Fill it with more than matter.  The earth is your hands hiding place  And I now realize your touch.  Your beauty is boundless  And your mind is all the sea.  But your life form, Your infinite being,  This language I cannot read.  And the tone that comes  From the ring of your voice,  I cannot make this sound.  It reverberates and hurts the inner-drum,  It drives me to the ground.   stephanie l jordan-renz

" Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these ." I am not in complete agreement with Dicki here. I don't see poetry as escaping, but, perhaps releasing one from the intensity of emotion. For me, it is the same with painting; an intense amount of what I prefer to call "energy" rather than emotion, being put to use by "releasing" it, and thus, ending it. When I create a painting, it is intensely spontaneous and full of fervent energy. When it is released to its full, like revving an engine and emptying the tank, it is dead. I am happy when it is dead, because then that energy is gone, I can move on to the next experience, gather new energy, and begin again. But, I do agree with her on poetry perhaps being an escape from personality. This, may be true,

“ Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen . ”

Elliot emphasized the relation of the artist to tradition: "[W]e shall often find that not only the best, but the most individual parts of [a poet's] work, may be those in which the dead poets, his ancestors, assert their immortality most vigorously."

Woodcutter, cut my shadow from me. Free me from the torment of seeing myself fruitless. Why was I born among mirrors? The daylight revolves around me and the night copies me in all its constellations. I want to live without seeing myself. I shall dream that husks and insects are my birds and my foliage. Woodcutter, cut my shadow from me. Free me from the torment of seeing myself fruitless.

A sea creature trudges through waters thick with movement, full of heat and wave because he knows what he is. His purpose is himself. And pretending to be a fish, I trudge, trudge, trudge through waters and come up dry. Scales glistening in the sun, but parched and thirsty, so thirsty. Flop, flip-flop to the next pool, the next moon, the next sun. Sometimes even the stars guide me. Sometimes nothing. And this pinch in my soul, this ache that has been since the beginning of time (I think when I fell). It cannot find rest. It cannot lay down with me and wake up as smoke puffing out over the hill. No! It plumes, it ravages! It is a signal for war. So, I run for cover from myself. The body begs the legs, “Move each time the flame comes near your heels!” And the ground is always hot. I cool myself in beauty, bodies, in comfort, in... And the sea creature goes, he moves on when underwater volcanoes errupt. He feels the hot lava moving through current, and is unscathed. He travels on, getting

So I have these weak and forgiven eyes Eyes to see the glory, And nothing else. And great things I do not understand. It is the cup I cannot get out of, You poured me in this land. I reach and reach and Grasp the rim, Hanging, pulling Up to look out. Just one glimpse of your horizon And I could have it figured out. This sight thing. This sight thing is useless When you feel the utter warmth Rising up from the boiling, Penetrating earth's crust And cooling at your feet, And your arms stretch up like satin cloths To the sky. And your middle? It's filled with birds, it's made up of cloud, It is just a path, To the creator. Let it go Let it fizzle. I love again and regain my strength Each time I ponder this. Your essence by your creation, Is taken amiss. Upon Heaven I gaze, It is the most beautiful thing I have never seen. Unless love is of its hearth, And the fiery coals love burns upon is also love, I ponder this. Stephanie Lorentzen-Jordan

A house full of world and a Life redirected on one road For many to follow, I was born able to see, As we all are. But my vision was plucked unknowingly. Like a new born baby, My eyes were circumcised. The painnews new for a moment — But have no recollection. Then the figures in the house say, "You have no proof of ever, Your eyes having worked independently for you. You can only see when we see the proof. If it were so, when we circumcise the infant we would find the scar in the heart!" — never! I peel back the scar, the layers in my groin, Riding a highway up my spine. My heart bears the flap That closes over my soul And flutters in the wind, When God bellows in the bowl, For no one else to hear. (I sometimes hear its echo, But now, can't hear its essence.) Upon a Kingdom I gaze, With blind eyes From my perch up on this cup. A mountain I think it be. The life giving vapor that arises From the warm morning milk, My lips it never touched. I was born

Do you care? Do you care at all about this chair I sit in, This role I uphold, this face I make all over the place? I rove and heave and storm around like A safari vehicle beasting through brush. Huffing and puffing and chugging Irreverent hope, wheels spraying. And smoke flares from my nostrils and the insolent exhaust pipe. The villagers hate this about me. The noise that I make. I am the indignant bastard. And then I find myself weak And alone and isolated. I too, Reflect, and ask forgiveness. And where are you? Looking to my mind, no. You are finding comfort in a very shallow pool. The coolness of the water rises to your forehead, Putting out any thoughts of deep that you had. You say, "Let tomorrow come." But you come back to me some Hours later, to meet me at my chair. And you observe and check and make sure All the legs of my chair are fitted properly. “I am a Carpenter”, you say. And your tool of measure is a tiny Spindle of wood, that you

"So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more dangerous to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man's living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun." — Chris McCandless

Focus on the process instead of the product. Your child is engaged in a long- term process, characterized most typically by bursts or explosions of progress rather than steady, predictable and sequential steps. Our focus is on the developmental process, not on the product. In other works, there may be periods when the exterior manifestation if the child’s progress is minimal and not much is being produced on paper. This lack of physical evidence can cause anxiety in adults. Often, much is happening that we can not see on the surface, but when we remember to trust the child, as well as the training and expertise of the teachers, these fears can often diminish. Observe your children. Kahlil Gibr an’s reminder that “your children are not your children: they are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself” is much q uoted because it’s so basic yet so difficult to act upon. We want the best for our children and think we know what is best for them. Observing our children, gett

Show me the dirt pile And I will pray that the soul can take Three stowaways Vanish with no guile And I will not pay But the soul can wait The soul can wait It's still pretty What with all these weeks Wait. It’ll be fine Wait. It’ll be fine But if it’s still pretty What with all these weeks Will we find love And supervise Show me the dirt pile And I will pray that the soul can take Three stowaways And you vanish with no guile And I will not pay But the soul can wait I felt you so much today Oh no, you try You fly straight into my heart You fly straight into my heart Girl, I know you try You fly straight into my heart You fly straight into my heart But here comes the fall So much for me believing that sorrow So much for dreams we see but never care to know Your heart makes me feel Your heart makes me moan For always and ever I'll never let go Always concealed Safe and inside, alive Show me the dirt

In the middle of the ocean, there is a blue beyond blue. Walk with me, talk with me, blue beyond blue. In the middle of the ocean, there is a sea all its own. Meld with me, molt with me, sea and your foam. In the middle of the ocean is a crystal clear night. Talk with me, show to me, your twinkling lights. In the middle of the ocean is a life breathing water. Creatures stirring, life happening, son and daughter. In the middle of the ocean, there is the being and His mind thoughts moving, moon tides pulling, time is left behind. Stephanie Lorentzen-Jordan

Thank you for the rest. Thank you for the rest I feel when eyes see through things and into your richness. Into your you. You are like glass arms reaching out over a globe. I can ride your highways and never dirty them up. You don’t break either. Even though you appear as glass. Life’s energy travels through your arms, I see it all but see nothing. Feel it all, but feel nothing. Hear it all, it is full. Stephanie Lorentzen-Jordan