NaPoWriMo - April 1st

April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.

G. M. Stroll

About me: I'm a 30 year old schizophrenic author, living in Montreal. I took up writing, at first, to give a gift to a sick friend of mine; dedicated to raising money for charitable research into her illness. I discovered that I loved the trade, and made a short hop over into fiction a couple years ago. I'm currently in the process of querying my first fiction novel, Trinity Divided. My inspiration is generally drawn from music, but equally every psychosis I've survived has left me with shattered dreams from which to piece together a story. Through all the mediums one can write, I'll always have a love - hate relationship with poetry. To me, poetry is a thinly veiled window into our deepest emotions.

G.M. Stroll can also be found on Authonomy.

Enter slowly, from the door;

Come before me, whom I abhor.

Dreams of faintly painted pains;

Leaves my spirit empty and drained.

Forlorn deeds from serpent’s breath;

Bring my soul to a place beyond death.

From there I wake to a host of dreams;

Real though haunting, they aren’t what they seem.

In this place of shadows forsaken;

My life isn’t gone but my sanity taken.

Beckon unto me thy will;

Egos of a rotten face.

With lamenting the holes will fill.

Forever dreaming of a place;

To rest upon my weathered bones.

Journey no more, I’ve found a hut.

And from this shelter I make a home;

To slumber in my little rut.

All the while dreams will pass;

My scattered thoughts, like shards of glass.

Sudden reversal of fortunes true;

Glimmering like a fiery spark.

Thoughts are skewed and found anew.

Rows on rows like teeth of a shark.

They mix and churn into one big pot;

Understanding the facets of the brain;

Forming in my mind, into a clot.

I look upon them with a slight strain.

Some of these did not belong;

And so I sort them with dismay;

Plans and designs of something wrong.

To find myself, once again I pray.

Beyond tatters of despair;

I can taste bitterness in the air.

Gordon Kuhn - Writing Poetry

In celebration of World Poetry Day, I convinced Gordon Kuhn, author of The Widow's Cliff and Other Poems, to share his experiences as a poet. Please take a look, and maybe you'll be inspired to write a poem or two of your own. 

Gordon Kuhn - Poet

What is a poet? Why be a poet?

I recall years back my father saying to me:

He’s a poet.

But he didn’t know it.

However, his feet did.

They were Longfellows.

Well, cute, but not the point I’m looking to make. I am a poet because I think in that fashion. I like to play with words. I love the sound of words. To me, music fills the air when I write poetry. Now, please understand that I don’t like ALL poetry. I like Bishop and Plath, along with Sexton and a few others. They bring out the poet in me if I am reading their poetry. I cannot sit and read Sylvia Plath without writing myself. It's impossible, I have to write.

So, what do I write about? I write about everything. Whatever comes to mind. However, I cannot force it. I cannot say I'm going to write a poem about nurses and sit down and write one. It does not work that way. But on the other side of the fence, I can be walking down the street and suddenly a poem will form. Then the love of sound and meter take over. The words tumble through my brain, loving each other, wrestling with each other, and they make poetry.

The other issue that comes to mind is the reader. Not everyone in the world likes poetry. Most people don’t. That being true, the poet has a reduced population of potential readers. Among that crowd are people who read poetry but walk around saying they don't understand poetry. That can be troublesome if you're sensitive to their issues. The poet has to realize that they are simply an instrument and what they write will have different meanings to different readers. I've also learned that my poetry and I are separate. I've learned I must make it clear to my readers that what they read may not be the reality of my life. I write about drunkenness, however I'm not drunk. I write about what I feel, what comes to my mind, and what to me sounds beautiful.

I wrote a poem this morning and I'm including it here.

SINISTER

March 19, 2012

Copyright 2012 Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain Productions

What capsule is this which surrounds me now?

What obscurity blurs the present sadly seen?

That life is as though a shadow drawn,

Beyond some clouded window pane,

As viewed down a distant rain-swept lane,

Where all the wishes of a lifetime now lay as pitied refuse

Piled at my feet for not following the path given and shown.

I failed to heed the signs as daily errant labor lay

Sublime and seduced my mind to wander and pray not stay

In proper nature, as others were wise to do.

And now the history in ending August chill

While fall comes as blame is cast before me there.

Dying leaves as shadows fall upon the lawn of life.

For failure to see or to understand the gift past given

And as a knife plunged deep within my heart

Sorrows tumble as blood droplets fall by the score for failure to ignore

The wisps of lightly scented false wishes that led astray

That pulled me from life’s purposeful and plain desire

T’was sinister delusions most grandeur that misled me to this day

And yet, and yet, I would surely wish it no other way.

I’m a simple poet. I write. It is my present to thee.

 Gordon Kuhn, Poet in the Rain.

  

Don't forget to check out Gordon's blog at  http://gordonwrites.com/ .