I love writing and I love blogging. My favorite thing to do is share. Because I’ve been getting obsessed with poetry, I have yet another poem I wish to share with my readers. Once again, I let you interpret your own meaning, but every poem pertains directly to my current stage of being. Watched before even being published.. it’s a crying shame.
As a writer, I’ve taken it upon my practice to read poetry every day. I believe in the power of words and find beauty within the poets of our history. One of my current projects is finishing a chapbook manuscript. Perhaps I will have to create another platform for my own poetry. But this is for my secret “admirers,” the ones who watch over me all day, every day. For, maybe, the rest of my life… the National Secruity Agency, who listens when I sing and play my guitar. When I’m all alone, I’ve always got my invisible audience. I wish it were a metaphor:
IN HER SONG SHE IS ALONE
by Jon Swan
Followed the bird in the long forest where it cried,
From paths stepped into the stone shade,
Where the quick, frightened song was heard
Taking its beauty from that solitude,
Its heightened calling rising in the wood.
No path led; hard to discover
Direction with light lost in the leaves’ stir.
The only sounds were bird and the lost river
Sunk under fern and flowing under
Root and foot; then sang again, farther, farther
Nothing lovelier than the lonely call,
Bare and singular, like a gull,
And three notes or four, then that was all.
It drew up from the quiet like a well,
Waited, sang, and, vanishing was still.
And tall the night came down the limbs,
The trunks descending, and the stems,
To darkness gathered where she comes:
The pool. And by those growing streams
I listened, beyond mourning, for her wings.
—- by JON SWAN