Melancholy

A mere trifling of emotion
begins.
Something of sadness exists
within the context of reason.
There is no call for reflection
or contemplation,
no trigger of butterfly wings
to set the whirlwind in motion.
Only the echo of a lost moment
which never existed.
Until it was imagined as stolen
from this kitchen table.
Where a lamp illuminates a book,
a phrase,
which always conjures emotion
from the night air.



Sometimes you write to see where it will take you. The results may be less than satisfactory, but that's ok.
I have a friend who is studying for her master's in poetry; she plan to teach someday. She has progressed to a level of poetry that I can appreciate, but rarely understand. At least not without 5 to 6 close readings so my head is swimming in words. It is interesting how thinking about something complex can have either a mind expanding or a mind crumpling effect. Philosophy, while endlessly fascinating, is not something I can defend in an argument. Eventually it all becomes circular reasoning to me and I get the mind crumple. Poetry, which has a very strong philosophical connection, can often do the same thing. There is a stage where someone becomes the poet's poet. The writing is almost inaccessible to anyone else; the group becomes so tight knit that only those who have gained access to the secretive inner circle seem to be able to discuss the content, context, and second meaning. (While the first meaning continues to elude the casual reader.)
Even without the degree, she is a master of the abstract form. (I believe it's called something else, but she uses powerful images to convey a specific message.)
Then there are those who write narrative. Poems that are often accessible to the casual reader, stating plainly what the writer wants to convey, just written in a manner and flourish that many people cannot attain in their writing.
No matter what the style, the power of that written word becomes mind expanding. Sometimes it is necessary to approach poetry in a Zen style, accepting it for what it is, enjoying the moment and then letting it pass away. If the poem begins to give you a mind crumple step back and simply let the words affect your emotions. Feel like you're doing the poet a disservice by not trying to grasp their meaning? Can't decipher that code?
My mother went to hear Robert Frost read once. (She has an autographed book of his around somewhere.) An eager reader asked "What did you mean when you wrote this?" He replied, "What do you think I meant?"
It becomes and "I don't know art, but I know what I like" moment. Mind expanding. Don't try to figure out what you THINK the artist wants you to know, let the art pick at your own emotions until they are raw. Don't just think "that makes me angry". Wonder why it makes you angry. Wonder why it makes you happy. Wonder why it does anything to you at all.
That is the artist's intention, to make you think. To give that mind expanding moment where you (hopefully) discover a greater truth through examining your own reaction.

And I'm sure I'll look back at this rant in a few days and think "I am soooooo full of crap".