Can we take violence from the magical design in the beauty of rain?
The violence that we find within ourselves, on television, in print media, in modern society, in history, in literature, in love and war and in crime and can we find peace within the feast of the vertigo of the hill and the valley, the endless blue feet of the sky and the toughened green crest of the mountain. Will we be able to find stillness in the brightness illuminated from an adult world in the frame of a baby, in their eyes? Vladimir Nabokov was wrong. Poets have it within themselves to kill. They live with that thought, and very soon the thought becomes a pattern and after that, the pattern becomes a vibration.
It is not clear whether the reader of the poetry catches on to that vision or that vibration and holds onto that substance prodigiously. Whether it soon resonates within him or her. Whether it resounds swiftly or at first very quietly inside his heart before it reaches for their mind and their psyche, their intellect and their ego, their soulless spirit and their soul. There is dimensions to poetry just like there is to a piano, to a string quartet, a songwriter and the song they have just penned. At the end of the day, you are an artist if you raise a child or write something, anything. In writing that ode, sonnet, or bildungsroman, in preparing that breakfast or steak, finding yourself at an ashram or doing service.
All the sharp edges of creativity are there in a kind of bonhomie if you will. The spirit of creativity will always meet you in abundance if you meet it halfway. This is what female poets are starting to realise now. The tyranny of beauty meeting the female poet with her chin up and head held high head on. That kind of philosophy is not meant for the sexless tourist, that Orlando sashaying through this world of psychological firmaments searching for an asylum. Poets need people as much as people need poets. We need female poets most of all and they in return need a sanctuary. Sanctuary means having a roof over one’s head. A wide readership that is as wide as a morning. For a woman sanctuary can mean many things.
It can mean acceptance. It can mean approval. Most of all it can mean love. Being on the receiving end of that love, engaging in it, being highly inspired to even greater wuthering heights is a place where spiritual poverty or any kind poverty does not exist anymore. Poverty is no longer just diminished or reduced it is also erased. The female poet wants you to love the poetry that she is giving to you with an open heart and an open mind. She finds meaning in human difficulties, pollen and birds but first she is nature’s bride. Nature gives her insight and the female poet is greedy for that insight. She has the stomach for it. She has the stomach to engage with a forceful pressure on the singularities found in the spirituality of nature.
Then there are other females who are poets who are interested in humanity and the sexual transaction. Other women who are interested in writing to heal some part of themselves that is in need of healing. Other female writers who want to forget something about the past, who want to surrender and let go of something bravely and boldly and they turn their attentions to putting all of their energies effortlessly and with dogged commitment into history and the reality that they find themselves in. A female poet looks at order and sees maladjustment there. She asks herself. ‘Who made it so’ and, ‘why is it like this?’ and ‘what am I seeing?’ She is always dreaming about knowledge. She knows that poetics comes with choices and responsibility. A poet is dust. A poet can be turned into dust during the process of writing the poem or at the end of writing the poetry or at the end of the book that she is writing.
However, poetry can be many things. Its progress can be savage. Saviour or redeeming feature. Astrological discovery or comet. The ending can be aggressively beautiful or end violently brutal. It can either remind us of our own humanity or the cosmos, politics or social cohesion, community or society. It can make a socialite out of you or an interloper. A female who writes, who is an artist and sees chaos knows intuitively and through instinct what rules that chaos broke and what thought patterns brought it to life. She looks at a leaf and sees knowledge there. She sings, she suffers, and sometimes, just sometimes she acknowledges both. How else can she escape delirious poverty and unhappiness if not through writing and rewriting the soul? That is her inspired compensation for her lot in life. That is how she invents and reinvents herself beautifully in a myriad of ways. The female poet is that sleeping woman. This oracle dreams in code and prophecy. She is a prophet although she does not know it yet. Prophets seldom proclaim that they are prophets. Although the lifetime of her body of work professes it.
