Feining interest... or other hazards of partial revelation

What is the process of true feeling revelation?  Is it just " Sorry, I ate the chocolate that you were saving."  ...or is that only a prelude to words that are too blurred to be expressed?  "Sorry, I ate the chocolate you were saving  because I really wanted to throw away everything I own and join a monastery because I don't belong in my life or anywhere for that matter because I really hate chocolate but you love it more than you love me and because........?"  

We are fortunate to have language as an aid to expression; also, art, cinema, literature, cell phones, video games, substances, computers, poetry, music, philosophy, religion, therapists, meditation, exercise, marathons, dance etc.  However, wouldn't it be ultimately more satisfying if we could really make clear the fuzzy words that are trapped inside?...if the words could reveal themselves a drop at a time; appear, disappear, and reappear again.. perhaps in a different form or at a different time...until finally, even we would know what we are trying to divulge.


Manzanilla


Delicate Tact lets Sooth cower
under absolute silence less the
"Tippler" appear.
From what Cocoon a Butterfly?
To what Jailer does she comply?

Asunder casts a Heart buoyant.
Brilliant Intellect argues a case
to Wind, Breezes, Bubbling Brooks,
Giggles, Teases-- who all so
freely care, listen sincerely,
contribute a phrase or two;
but are gone as before--the Air.

01/18/09


"Tippler"   a tipsy character in a poem by Emily Dickinson     He is Tipsy by either spinning or drinking, Interpreters argue as to which. This is perhaps my favorite poem written by Emily Dickinson. To me, her poems are the pinnacle of subtle yet intimate expression.  She somehow manages to turn herself inside out; and because exposed, her flesh reveals her inner most thoughts.  


#214



I taste a liquor never brewed,
From Tankards scooped in Pearl;
Not all the Frankfort Berries
Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of Air-- am I--
And Debauchee of Dew--
Reeling-- thro' endless summer days-
From inns of Molten Blue--

When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door-
When Butterflies-- renounce their "drams"--
I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats--
And Saints-- to windows run--
To see the little Tippler
From Manzanilla come!

by Emily Dickinson

I, not being as cleaver as Emily and certainly lacking her unique eclectic vocabulary, can only grasp the tails of wispy intangible stubborn cyphers awaiting their entrance.



2009

Your fading snores comfort me from a
wall behind vows taken lightly,
refusing your promise or any.

To what avail is this annex viewing?
Perfection from blue eyes,
blue steel eyes that miss nothing.

I was flippant with the poems because
they were lazily hanging around.  I took
offense at their slovenly indolent after
the fact critique of my annoying loneliness.

I could have gone to see you uninvited.
I could have explained how my paralysis
caused an inconvenience; but you were
being yourself, and I hated you for it.

10-24-09