Every so often, in this jaded life, somebody sends you a poem that sends you yourself halfway to the moon.
Yeah, yeah, you'd seen it all, read it all.
And then, out of the blue comes originality, truth, creativity of a high order.
THE EXIT JUST INCHES FROM HER NOSE
She’s dancing now;
After been to hell and back.
Lashes singe from sweltering journey-
She’ve travelled . The darkest tunnels-
Embedded in forbidden furnace over treacherous hills.
Beyond purple dawns of-
multi doses of chemo tangle her eternity,
that same painful path her dad travelled to the promise land
when it was time to say, no more
no more poking, or burning my internal demons
let go, I am tired
that same tunnel her brother visualizes in his taste buds.
And so it looms:
The family fear.
many dried roses hangs bat like in the basement,
So the cards and gift baskets,
Un-open. Encouraging Words like stream;
Climbing a tower to be strong as a sea,
Wings lame yet she flies.
Higher than ever ;
What fridge winter lay hibernanat.
They all ask same question.
Who can fix all those ;
Broken doll facing upward.
on abandon fields every where.
Why cant scientist save the world-
From boiling rain, and radiated beams
With band aide power to halt .
When the exit is red and cannot hide
Just inches from your nose.
The poetess wants editing; there are things she can't see while nervously buttoning and unbuttoning her buttons of words. Ye gods, have pity on me! I am a simple blacksmith, not forging in the smithy of my sould the uncreated consciousness of my race, but, rather the fully created consciousness of the self, and, I fear a blackened and fell self.
And what good all this pounding on the anvil where someone else can just touch, here and there--and there you are, all of you. This is what you have been trying to unbutton; this is what you were trying to button. You are there, whole and clearly visible. I can see you.
Or that is the sense you get while reading Ms. X's poetry.
She came to me clear, as if in a field.
"Do you do one-on-one edits?"
I did not know what to expect. I have read some good poetry. I have read bad poetry. I have published some
mediocre poetry--does it count if it's in the yearbook of your own university?
And then in comes a brace of poems from Ms. X.
Oh my God. I have never read anything like this work.
So, out with the notepad, the candle, the yellow paper.
This is good work Ms. X has sent in.
I dare not be flip or glib.
This is stuff straight from the heart, but a heart not yet touched by me.
Hippocratic oath: Do no harm!