Thoughts On Expression While Trying To Write A Play

The writing of a drama is a difficult thing.

The feeling persists that the dramatic form is the only true way to express my thoughts at the moment, the only way that would be effective.

The problem is the words get jumbled in my head, they will not flow, when I sit down to give the ideas form.

It’s as if the abstractions wish to remain abstractions.

It’s as if they don’t want to be expressed, only internalized.

Is it possible that ideas, some ideas, should never actually be expressed, but kept internal?

Is it possible that ideas, some ideas, are not merely ideas, but are living things which can only live on the plane of ideas?

Is it possible that if these ideas are given form in the physical world, given direct expression, they would die?

Is it possible that ideas such as these are those things which truly direct our lives and should never be expressed directly, but lived, only expressed indirectly by keeping them within ourselves, by coming forth as some ineffable quality that can never be expressed, only seen, but even at that, only seen indirectly?

Is it possible that some ideas are done a great injustice by being expressed?

Is it possible that by expressing some ideas we are caging them, destroying them, somehow?

Is it possible that in our constant search and yearning for expression we are killing the very thing we seek?


Nonsense Verse #2

What beast am I?

These are beastly whispers.
I hear them being said.

I’m cold and trodden,
the irony of the dead.

But who shall wake
the sleeping gurgles

that gurgle in
the Gorgon mind?

Who shall talk
in bittersweet symphones,
running out of time?

Nonsense Verse #1

in my

and soaking up
the blame

of a thousand years
of routed tossel

in the vile(vial)(vale) of sin and shame.

And ‘though I’m rent
to rack the shackbones
of those who come before us

I may take leave
for long enough
to snatch the eye of Taurus.

Sonnet For Forgotten Memories

Foreshadowing our conclusions
of the things we’ve wrought
in the furnace, the iron forge,
are the things we sought
in our youth, our folly,
our innocence, regained.

The hope of a lighter yoke,
a lesser burden, lesser pain,
was only achieved by fire
and the crossing of the Baptism.

The waters of Lethe
never touched our lips
as we were led
to remembrance.

Movement Song On Silent Lips

From bulb to bud,
the cross-section of seed,
all hands freed from restraint
and the blindness torn away.

From the hand that moves
to the hand that guides,
all manner of things entwine
in the procession of movements
between mortality and the Divine.

From spark to flame,
all that’s extinguished,
no cliche can tell the story
as rightly as it’s lived.

Speak of no sparks,
speak of no fire.
Speak of no passion.
Speak not at all.

Let the lips be silent
and let the movements speak.

For Those Who Seek Refuge From Constant Encouragement

I find it hard to be myself in a world that tells me to be who I am.

I find it hard to dream in a world that encourages me to do so.

I find it disheartening when I’m told it’s okay to dream and then am told that the dreams I have aren’t big enough to be my REAL dreams.

I ask myself how big a dream must be before it is worthy of pursuing.

I feel bombarded by the word “potential”.

I feel overwhelmed by the seeming necessity to “live up to my potential”.

I ask myself:  what potential is this I am to live up to?

I dream small.

I do not aspire to shift the axis of the world.

In a world of big dreams, enormous aspirations and constant encouragement to “live up to my potential”, I have grown weary of encouragement.

I dream small.

But I still dream.