I have this perverse longing to be both enigmatic and open. I want to be mysterious yet at the same time understood. I want to be obscure and yet blatant. How does a poet reconcile themselves with a plethora of contradictions? Is being understood a necessary evil? Would I rather be understood posthumously?
Posthumous artistic achievement is much like my attitude towards online blogging in general. I don't know who reads my blog. I don't know if anyone reads it. Or ever will read it... it might be that someone genuinely takes a peek into my thought life or...it could be that a computer glitch is my ex-boyfriend stalker... obsessed with my poetry and prose... could a computer fall in love with content?
In any case, no one is understanding my poetry so I might as well let my invisible machine lover feast on my thoughts and eat up my soul...
Here is a new poem:
Low battery
fingers tremble
quivering in the flesh
fingers expectantly caress...the ghost of machinery beneath
the skin
the slick gloss of a machine caresses your skin
applying pressure
a soft click and the room illuminates
glowing electronic fruit
the manipulations of buttons, clicks, letters and numbers
the glow, the man made materials that are nothing like nature
seamless and correct
its psychic conduit, its life line ties the mind together
zeroes and ones, zeroes and ones
is my inbox empty?
-C. Woodard
No comments:
Post a Comment